


Forget Me Not

by roberre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, amnesia!Belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 90,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roberre/pseuds/roberre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You cared for me," she says, slowly. The words sound strange on her tongue, because he didn't care for her and nobody cares for her because nobody knows her (because she doesn't know herself). The woman with no memories and no name attempts to repair the shattered fragments of her life, and Gold stays in Storybrooke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anti-Kryptonite](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Anti-Kryptonite).



Part One: Blank Slates and Brown Eyes

Chapter One

 

She hears "Belle?" called out in Doctor Whale's voice and nearly forgets to answer.

(Belle means nothing to her. Belle is a ringing, tinkling, gonging object – not a person. Not her.)

"Can I talk to you a moment?" he asks.

She bites her lip and pulls the thin blanket higher up her legs, wiping her palms on the soft cotton. Looking up, she finds she can't meet his eyes. Opening her mouth, she finds she can't speak. So she nods instead and stares at the whiteness of his coat.

His voice is soft, and quiet, and she's not sure if it's soothing or pitying (but right now she thinks either might be okay because there's been far too much screaming lately.) He takes one step forward. But only one, because her hands grip the blanket white-knuckled and her jaw tightens and he's an observant man. Three days of hospital life has given her time to study him, and the details of 'Doctor Whale' are uncluttered in her mind because her mind has nothing with which to clutter them.

"Belle," (jingle bells and cow bells and the resounding music of church bells from a great cathedral) "I want to be clear on something. You don't have to see anyone you don't want to, okay? Use this time to recover. The bills are taken care of, so take as long as you need."

She wants to leave. She wants to get as far away from here as she can, but here is the only place she knows (although it's so much lighter and whiter and brighter than the dark empty cave she's inhabited for such a long time) and here is the only place she might be safe. She was outside and she was shot, after all. A man was run over and she (apparently) forgot her memories and perhaps it's her own fault. She was outside and chaos reigned. "Okay," she says.

"It's your choice." She hears a caveat approaching with the inevitability of an out of control car. There's a long pause. "But Mister Gold has been asking to see you."

A jolt through her body like electricity, fear and anger and confusion. A knee-jerk reaction, her eyes flick up to Doctor Whale's and blue meets blue and she shakes her head. "No. I don't—" she very nearly flinches, "—I don't want that man here."

"You're sure?"

She nods, and it spills hair (dark and long and gently curled, matted and knotted and in need of a wash) in front of her face. "He needs to leave."

Whale nods. "Okay," he says. His lips press tightly together, nostrils slightly flared and eyebrows creased in thought, and he makes a move to the door. But then he stops, turns to face her. "Can I offer you a suggestion?"

It's a strange question.

For as long as she can remember (approximately seventy two hours), she's only been told. Ordered. Instructed. She's been force-fed details of her past, and force-fed tranquilizing medication when the walls closed in and she started to scream, force-fed the saccharine smiles and assurances that 'it will all be alright' and 'you just need to give it time'. (She's been healed and kissed and had a broken teacup shoved in her face.) Nobody's offered her a choice, until now.

"Okay," she tells him.

"May I sit down?"

A momentary hesitation. But he is kind to his patients (if not always to everyone else) and he has offered her a choice. "Okay."

"Thank you."

He pulls up a plastic chair from beside her bed and takes a seat, keeping a comfortable distance between them. She feels vulnerable. Exposed. Ratty and unkempt like a discarded doll. But he doesn't stare at her gown or her mussed hair. He merely offers a thin smile and folds his hands in his lap and says, "You will see him. Gold. Around town." She opens her mouth and he waits for an answer, but she has none to give. So he continues. "I know you don't want to—but it's an eventuality you're going to have to face sooner or later. All I'm trying to say is that it might be easier to face here, rather than out there."

Here, where it is safe and a single scream can bring a team of orderlies running in to push him away. Where there are no crowds and no guns and no cars and no fireballs dancing in open palms. (Here, where she belongs.)

She studies Whale's face for a long time, and he leaves his expression neutral. Gentle. Soft enough to avoid scaring her eyes away. "Do you know him?"

"We've worked together on occasion."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Sometimes." A small half-smile. A creased forehead. "But not to you."

She looks from Whale to the door of her room, remembering the mysterious grey-haired man who nearly broke apart when she asked him to leave. "That's not reassuring."

He laughed. She hadn't meant it as a joke, but his smile is wide and toothy. Despite herself, she feels her lips twitch.

"Maybe it shouldn't be," he says. "He's a strange man, Mister Gold… but I don't need to know him well to realize he'd do anything for you."

"Except leave me alone?"

Whale raised his eyebrows, conceding her point. "Do you want me to ask him to go, then?"

"I—" She should say yes. Her heart is beating and her palms are sweating and she knows if Mister Gold walks through the door the terror will flood into her with the heat of red-hot iron and the bite of icy handcuffs. And she knows she will break his heart and his agony will leave her feeling sick. And she knows she can't be who he wants her to be. (Can't be Belle. Belle is not her.) "I don't know."

"That's fine. That's perfectly fine, Belle."

She wrings her blanket between her hands and musters up the strength to speak the words forming on her tongue. "Ask me again tomorrow."

xxxx

It takes several 'tomorrows' before she has an answer for Mister Gold.

She hasn't gone out (though Ruby has offered to show her around town) because she knows he's there. In the lobby or in his shop (he owns a shop) or on the streets, he's waiting for her answer. Waiting for her. The very thought of it sends her legs all to jelly. But she has a suitcase of clothes now, and a stack of books she's been reading, and Doctor Whale is letting her stay as long as she needs because her room has been paid for (and there aren't many sick people in Storybrooke clambering to take her place).

And she's recovering.

Not her memories. Not 'Belle'. But in some ways, she's getting better.

She travels to the cafeteria for breakfast and coffee. Ruby brings over lunch most days; she has conversations with David and Mary Margaret; she takes walks with Emma (she feels safe enough to travel the gardens with the tall, silent woman who has a gun and an attitude strong enough to scare off any danger). She's spoken to Leroy, who brought her flowers and smuggled her in a hip-flask of bourbon (which is tucked into the bottom of her suitcase but calls to her like a siren when the nightmares hit), and to Archie Hopper, who is kind enough to come to the hospital whenever she needs him (and spent half their conversation thanking her for things she doesn't remember doing).

And she thinks she's ready to face Mister Gold.

She takes a shower. She combs her hair. She rummages through her suitcase and marvels once again at how many dresses and skirts this woman owned (and wonders how she could stand to wear them when they're so open and so like a shapeless hospital gown) and finally decides on a pair of black jeans and a massively oversized knitted sweater. It's not classy. It's not pretty. But it's warm… and she needs warmth.

She hides a pager in her hands, hides her hands inside the droopy sleeves, and walks to the cafeteria in a startlingly high pair of heels that give her the confidence she needs.

He's already there (waiting for her answer, like she knew he would be), but his eyes are locked onto a paper coffee cup from the vending machine and he doesn't see her come in.

There's still time to leave.

There's still time to run.

She can still escape.

But she has her sweater and her heels and the pager, and the angles of his back are weighed down and his bad leg sticks out from beside the tiny table, and she is getting better.

So she crosses the cafeteria with heels clacking against the tile floor. He hears her, and he looks up, and she meets his eyes. (They are brown. They are sad and much older than she expected.)

He stands, using the table to push himself up and giving a slight almost-hop to accommodate his leg. "Miss French."

It takes her a moment to reply, but she takes a breath and blinks and fights against the tension in her jaw and says, "Mister Gold, right?"

He nods. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Yes. Please."

He waits until she settles herself before sitting again. He takes a sip of his coffee. He's formal, in a business suit, with a business tone. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

She feels as though she should straighten her back. Sit prim and proper and use her manners (and use her words to say something like "Yes, the thought did cross my mind" to show she has control over her own life). But she folds her arms across her body and stares at the table and nods instead.

"I came to apologize."

"For kissing me."

His brows twitch in an expression that looks almost like a wince. "Yes. And for other things, as well."

She waits, but he doesn't seem inclined to elaborate. "Okay," she says. She purses her lips and gives a tiny shrug. "I guess it's not really a great situation for any of us."

He spreads his hands out on the table, long-spider fingers with buffed nails and (tiny flecks of gold?) a turquoise ring. "I'm sorry for frightening you." A good start. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you when you asked me to leave." His hand clenches, unclenches, presses hard against the table until his knuckles turn white. He purses his lips and shakes his head. "I'm sorry for a good many things, Belle."

Perhaps if Belle was here, she'd forgive him.

"I never meant to hurt you," he says in a whisper.

"I know." But he did, nonetheless.

His eyes flick to her, and he straightens his back slightly and uses one of those tense clenching-unclenching hands to raise his cup to his lips and take a sip. She recognizes the action as a rallying point of courage. "I was afraid," he says.

It's not what she expects to hear. "Afraid of what?"

He sets the cup down, hand still curled around it, and scans the cafeteria. The lines around his mouth are tight, and his gaze flicks from table to table as if searching for predators. For the first time, she realizes that he's as uncomfortable as she is. That the crowds of people—to her, chattering and comforting and real— press in on him like asylum walls. Finally, he sighs. "I was afraid of losing you."

She drops her eyes to the table, unfolds her arms long enough to rub her sleeve against a stain. Not that she expects it to come off—and it doesn't—but it provides a moment's distraction. A moment to breathe and pretend that he isn't looking at her. A moment to rally her strength. She looks up.

"…I'm sorry I broke your cup."

All light disappears beneath the liquid-brown of his eyes, like a torch extinguished by mud. Exquisite pain stares back at her. "No no, don't apologize." He holds up a hand and presses his fingertips to his chest. "It was my fault."

"The hospital staff… they kept the pieces. If you want them." She scrubs at the stain again. "They're in a box somewhere. A storage room, I think."

"Why—"

"I asked them to." She leaves the stain alone and sets to rubbing her arms. Her whole body's gone cold. Her head aches. She feels dizzy and her heart beats fast and she finds herself rubbing her shoulder in the place where she was shot and where it bled until he crawled over and waved his hand and the pain was gone and-

She's not crazy.

She's not crazy and he's not going to hurt her.

"I should go," he says, and she's glad—because if he'd waited a split second later, her nerves would have given out and she'd have run from the table without thought for appearances or her ridiculous high heels. He picks up his cane and drains the remainder of his coffee and heads towards the doors like a man pursued.

She watches him in silence.

Doctor Whale draws up behind her a moment later, worried eyes and gentle hands on her shoulder, and pries the pager out of her shaking hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Blank Slates and Brown Eyes

Chapter Two:

Storybrooke is a small, bright town with five sets of stoplights and one of everything else. One diner, one bar, one gas station, one hospital, one convenience store… and one library.

Like the rest of the town, the library is nothing fancy. It's an old building with a clock tower—boarded up windows and peeling brown paint and white double-doors. It's perched on an unassuming corner (across from Mister Gold's pawnshop, she notices, and she doesn't think she'll be moving back into the apartment any time soon) between two streets that never seem to carry any traffic. It needs a lot of work.

But it's hers.

Or it was. Or it is.

She's not quite sure.

It's hers because she looks like Belle and wears Belle's clothes and speaks with Belle's voice. But it's not hers because the doors are locked and nobody can find the key because only Belle knows where it is, and Belle is gone. And she has no idea how to run a library. (She doesn't even know if she's ever been in a library.)

So the library sits on its unassuming corner and collects dust while she gradually familiarizes herself with everything else. While Ruby runs her through the menu at Granny's (pancakes and lasagna and iced tea and a promise of hamburgers that Ruby seems oddly reluctant to fulfill), and Snow and David invite her into their cramped apartment to watch movies, and Emma walks her around the town and glares daggers at anyone who crosses their path like they might be serial killers in disguise.

And every night, when she returns to the hospital, and slips past nurses into room 223 and wears pyjamas and leaves the lights on, she wishes she could be Belle just long enough to find the key. (And, sometimes, she wishes she could be Belle for longer than that, because Belle was brave and she is scared. Because Belle had friends while she only has strangers who love her for Belle's sake. Because Belle was happy, and she woke up to a car crash and a bullet in her arm.)

On the second week of remembrance, she leaves the hospital unaccompanied for the first time.

On the third week of remembrance, she finds herself standing in front of Mister Gold's shop.

The sign says 'open'. And she is wearing her tan skirt and her burgundy blouse (with the bullet hole hidden beneath a short black jacket), and it gives her confidence because these are the first clothes she remembers apart from a hospital gown, and she takes a breath and pushes the door open to the sound of a ( _Belle_ ).

He stands behind the counter and looks up at the sound.

There is a moment where he does not move. He does not even breathe, she thinks (though it is hard to see because he's robed in a black suit and the light is dim). And then he smiles. "Miss French," he says, all hesitation gone. Gone and replaced with a practiced ease she does not think he truly feels. "What can I do for you?"

"I—" Her voice dies out, wedged in her throat and lost in the vast dark emptiness of her creeping fear, and she looks out the window to remind herself why she is here. Why she has come to him for help. Why she has subjected herself to the pain in his eyes for even a moment longer. "I was wondering if you can open the library."

"Ah, you're in luck," he says, and grabs his cane from a nearby corner. He rounds the counter and she moves to the side, nearly knocking globes and books and an unsightly bundle of odd yellow fleece to the floor in her effort to clear his path. He pulls a tiny wooden box from a glass-fronted cupboard and flips it open. He hooks his little finger into the box and lifts a key with a 'library' tag from its depths. "I happen to have a spare."

The key swings slowly, glittering in the dim light, flashing silver across the dark wood and his dark suit. She's never seen it before. She wants very much to hold it in her palm and put it in her pocket and run away.

"You gave me the library," she says. "Before." It's not a question.

A tiny flicker of _something_ glints in his eyes, a sudden flash like the light reflected off the key. It's not silver, and it's not bright, and it's more caution than hope. More numbness than feigned indifference, as if hope sneaks up on him and he can't quite stomp it down. "Yes," he says. "How did you know?" It's a very neutral question in a very neutral voice.

She gives a tiny shrug and rubs her hand over her shoulder (over the bullet hole hidden by her black jacket). "It's not hard to guess." He's the only one who would. Who could. The only one who owns a shop and drives a vintage Cadillac and wears business suits and walks with a gold cane and flashes gold-toothed smiles. And she's seen him talking to Doctor Whale in the lobby when they think nobody sees them. "You paid for my hospital room, too."

He nods. The flash of not-silver hope is gone from his eyes, though the key still hangs from his finger and shines. "Yes."

She narrows her eyes. "Why?"

"You're a smart woman," he says, and the corner of his mouth twists into a smirk or a grimace or something in between. He's bitter and rusty around the edges, like an old tin can, and for a moment the sharpness cuts through into his tone. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

She takes a deep breath, glances to the heavy wood of the front door, braces herself against the nearest cupboard. To remind herself of an escape, because she's not locked in and she's not a prisoner (any more) and nobody can keep her if she decides not to stay. She could pull the cabinet down, and he'd never be able to climb over it with his bad leg, and she could leave.

But she sees him soften, as if crumpling into himself. And she sees him look away, and wince when her fear is too obvious to ignore, and her heart twists.

"You cared for me," she says, slowly. The words sound strange on her tongue, because he didn't care for _her_ and nobody cares for _her_ because nobody knows _her_ (because she doesn't know herself).

His rusty edges drop away in a hush, sliding into an almost-whisper. "I still do, my dear."

It's not what she wants to hear, but she can see from his eyes and his hands and the softness of his voice that it's the truth. "And…" She twists her hands together, folds her arms across her chest. Looks down at the floor and bites her lip. "And did I care for you?"

"I don't suppose it matters much anymore, does it?"

She looks up and offers him a small smile, and she knows it's poor consolation for everything he's lost. But it's all the comfort she can give. "Not much, maybe. But it still matters."

Because then he's not just some creepy old man who's (as Ruby would say) "hitting on her". If they had an actual relationship… if there was enough good in him for her to see… then maybe he isn't the monster everyone seems to think. Maybe he is just a man, even if he can hold fireballs in his hand. Maybe she doesn't need to be afraid of him.

He steps forward and presses the key into her hand so suddenly that she almost drops it. "Here," he says. "It works for the front door and the apartment, though you might want to change the locks in case someone comes across the missing set." He turns and limps back to his counter. Picks up a cloth and begins polishing a gold-and-jewel encrusted egg.

"What do I owe you? For the rent."

The cloth buffs the egg with near-frenetic rapidity. "Nothing."

"Why?"

He doesn't look up. "Gifts don't come with a price."

A pause. Breathing in the stillness, while Gold hides behind his counter like he's afraid of her (and not the other way around). She closes her fingers tightly over the key, edges biting into her palm but real and solid and full of indescribable potential, and turns to the door. She pushes it open and the ( _Belle_ ) rings again and Gold's voice calls out,

"Miss French. Wait."

She stops. Turns around, with the door still ajar and the wind blowing around her ankles.

His palms are braced against the counter, cloth still in his hand, and his posture is too-stiff. Trying too hard to be tall and stern and not cracked (like she knows he is, because brokenness is the easiest thing in the world to recognize because it's all she's ever known). "I was wondering…"

"Yes?" she asks, because if he takes much longer to say it, she'll leave. She doesn't trust her feet to stay in place.

He looks suddenly very nervous, those sad brown eyes staring down at his shoes, fingers tight against the counter. "Have you ever had a hamburger?"

She wracks her memory (her non memory, the blank slate of time and terror of being locked up and the fireball and her shoulder, miraculously healed) and finds nothing. Nothing but a vague concept with no form, of some sort of food she'd never tasted. "I haven't."

"Perhaps… when you feel you're ready… we could have one."

"Together." She means it like a question but her tone is flat and it's a leaden concept on her tongue. (Together means 'with him' and she can't quite understand what he means by hamburgers together 'with him'.)

"I'd understand if you didn't want to, of course, but I hear—" He stops, and his his words break even if the rest of him doesn't, and it takes him a moment to continue. When he starts again, his voice barely travels the length of his stop. "I hear Granny's makes a great one."

She doesn't say anything. Neither does he.

She shrugs.

He nods. It cuts him to the heart, and she feels ashamed that she is the cause of so much pain, but he has to understand. "Of course," he says, and his fingers close over the cloth, adjusting it and refolding it. "Of course."

She stands there for a long moment with the wind pushing her skirt against the back of her legs, but she wants to leave.

But his eyes (his eyes are brown and sad and old and for some reason this makes all the difference in the world) ache. They ache and so she aches, down to the very bone. So she shrugs again.

"Okay."

His head snaps up like the sound of a gunshot.

"I'll tell you," she says, and she pushes the door open a little further. "When I'm ready. I'll tell you."

He smiles a watery smile that nearly drowns her and she's glad the wind is blowing against her legs and the door is open because he seems to push the oxygen from the room. His smile is saying 'thank you' louder than she can tolerate. His smile is saying 'thank you' and she's given him nothing but false hope and a lunch date.

"You should find my number in your phone," he says, (once he's reigned in his smile and tucked it away behind a straight face and shining eyes).

"Under 'Mister Gold'?"

He smirks and his head tilts. He lifts a palm from the counter and splays his fingers and twists it at the wrists in a restrained-but-evident flourish. It seems uncharacteristic, a little jaunty for the sober older man with the greying hair and the business suit. He says, "Maybe, dearie." It's not a demeaning term. "And maybe not."

When she leaves, key in hand and library ahead, there's an almost-wink in his eyes. And if his tears are still there, she can't see them, because they're hidden deep and dark behind something that looks a little like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, guys! I'm totally floored by your response to the first chapter! Thank you so much. I'm totally flattered. Anyway, I hope you enjoy chapter two (and the rest of the story) as much as you seemed to enjoy the first chapter. :)
> 
> Special thanks to Anti-Kryptonite for an excellent beta job, as always, and for being my sounding-board, a listening ear to all my whining, and a good friend.
> 
> Thanks to everyone else for the faves/likes/follows/reviews. And to those who reviewed, I WILL send you a review reply. I'm just... really slow. And busy. And I suck. So I apologize for the delay. xD Thanks again!


	3. Chapter 3

"It says 'Rumple'," she says, when she sits down at the table across from him. "In my phone."

She doesn't say 'hello', because she needs answers more than she needs the awkward settled silence of polite conversation, because her hands are shaking and her mouth is dry and her curiosity (about his name) is the only thing keeping her from running to the bathroom and losing her breakfast. (It may be a very short lunch date.)

If he's surprised by her sudden appearance, by her lack of tact, he doesn't show it. He simply folds his hands on the vinyl tabletop and says, "Yes. I suppose it would."

"Why?"

"Belle was rather fond of the name."

He doesn't want to tell her, but she needs to know because she's been wondering for two weeks. Because her mind is pitted with holes she can never fill, and this is one of the few questions that might have an answer. Because Mister Gold needs a name as desperately as she needs a name. (Because monsters don't have names, and people do.)

She is wearing her tan skirt again. This time, with a light blue blouse and a yellow cardigan. And her hair is pulled back from her face, and her cellphone with the name 'Rumple' is in her pocket, and she has courage because she wouldn't be sitting here if she wasn't ready to face him. And she needs to know the answer. She needs to solve this one tiny corner of her mysterious, irrecoverable life.

So she folds her hands on the table, just like he does (though far away from touching, far on the other side of the tiny table with her elbows tucked against her ribs and her hands barely balanced on the edge). She folds her hands and narrows her eyes and stares at his violet pocket-square because she can't look him in the face today and asks, "Is it short for something?"

The silence pounds at her ears—fists against a door, the drumbeats of battle sounding a retreat back to the hospital, where the last bastion of her sanity stands guard behind a barricade of books, and no-one can visit her unless she gives them permission, and she is safe and she is calm and she is trapped and nothing bad will ever happen.

The silence pounds and her mind screams and Mister Gold says, "Rumplestiltskin" in a voice that is barely a whisper.

And everything goes silent. She can hear him shift on the chair. She can hear her own breathing.

"Rumplestiltskin?" she says.

He flinches. The sound of the name is a bullet, aimed at his pocket-square and shot into his heart. (She sounds like Belle.) She flicks her gaze to his face, and he stares at the table with his mouth pressed into a tight line. "Yes," he says.

She's read Grimm's Fairy Tales. Five weeks with no job and no life (surrounded by hospital staff and the considerate gestures of another woman's friends) have given her a lot of time for books. She's read Grimm's Fairy Tales and the man who sits before her is not Rumplestiltskin because Rumplestiltskin is a diminutive strange creature who dances around fires and rips himself in half when he doesn't get his way. The man who sits before her is calm and sedate and his eyes are sad and old and brown. So she smiles, like it's a joke (and maybe it is and maybe it isn't and maybe his parents really were cruel enough to name him 'Rumplestiltskin') and asks, very quietly, "Are you planning on stealing babies from the locals?"

There is a small smile on her face, and it must be contagious (like yawns and terrors and the common cold) because his lips twist up and he looks at her with a curious expression. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss French," he says. "But I gave that up several months ago."

She finds it funny.

And it startles her.

The sudden laughter (foreign on her tongue and loud in her ears and not altogether unhappy) seems to bubble up uninvited, from a place somewhere beneath her sternum, a relaxed and clever and teasing place she didn't know still existed. A place where her smile is warm the sun is shining and the man who sits before her (the not-Rumplestiltskin) smiles back without hesitation. (In truth, he does smile back. But the warmth fades because his eyes are still sad in this bleak grey reality, and the sun disappears behind a cloud and she realizes that jokes about stolen infants are neither humorous nor acceptable.)

Her smile fades, dropping away like the guilty smirk of a misbehaving child, and she rubs her finger along the edge of the tabletop. "Sorry," she says, staring down at her hands (dry from the cold air and the sterile surfaces of over-cleaned hospital furniture, soft and delicate because she was never a labourer, rounded nails and ink-stains on her fingers).

"You don't need to be," he says. "It's good to see you smile. Even at the expense of abducted children."

She's so nervous her hands are shaking but she smiles nonetheless because smiling is better than tears.

They fall into silence. Ruby comes by and she makes sure everything's okay and Mister Gold orders coffee and Ruby brings her an iced tea without asking. And it's supposed to be a hamburger date, but he doesn't press and she doesn't mention it, and Ruby leaves to attend to other customers.

"Thank you for coming, Miss French," he says. It's a stab in the dark, she thinks. A desperate attempt to reel her back into conversation, to distract her and occupy her and get her talking instead of sitting and staring at nothing and playing with the straw of her iced tea.

It works.

"Why do you call me that?" she asks.

"Call you what?"

"Miss French."

He offers nothing but a sad, sardonic smile. It looks like a scar across his face. "It's your name."

She pulls her glass closer, wraps her hands around the cool glass, rubs away droplets of condensation with her thumb. "Everyone else calls me Belle. Why don't you?"

He overturns one hand on the table, palm-up, as if offering her something more than a simple answer. As if the truth is a gift and the truth is heavy, and he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. "It helps me forget."

It's so ironic and so terribly fitting. Like snake venom, perhaps the cure is a healthy dose of the same, of amnesia injected intravenously or swallowed down like a pill.

"Does it work?"

"Sometimes."

Perhaps forgetting is easier than waiting on her to remember. (Because maybe she will and maybe won't and maybe Miss French or 'hey you' or Not-Belle is all that's left. Maybe Mister Gold's broken, cracking voice on the road was right and what is done cannot be undone. And maybe there is no way back.)

"Does it bother you?" he asks.

"I don't know. It just sounds… cold." She stirs her iced tea, jostling ice cubes. "It doesn't sound like a name. It doesn't sound like me."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Jane Doe?" It's an almost-joke and they almost-laugh. Lips twitch and eyes soften and she guzzles half her tea in the time it takes him to pour sugar into his coffee and stir it with a clinking teaspoon.

"Jane, perhaps. But not Jane Doe," he says, and he takes a sip of coffee before expanding on his thoughts. "I should think you're more of a Jane Eyre."

She's read the book three times already. He's likely spotted her with it tucked under her arm, in Granny's or the hospital cafeteria—or maybe he just _remembers_ and it was her favourite book _before_. But he must not have read it himself, because if he had, he'd know she's no Jane Eyre. Because Jane is strong and brave and independent and smart (like Belle), whereas she is afraid and lost and only defined by who she is not.

But she smiles, and doesn't correct him. "I suppose that makes you Mister Rochester?"

"No, my dear." He smiles softly and places his hand on his chest. "I'm Mister Gold. I believe we've met before."

It's more than an almost-joke—it's a _deliberate_ joke, and she finds the idea of Mister Gold joking as incredulous as the words themselves. Only, nothing seems very funny anymore. (Only hollow.) Her amusement is tinged with equal measures of panic and she hides it behind her iced-tea, stares at him from behind a shy smile and beneath dark eyelashes. And he smiles back.

Sometimes, like now, he looks at her like she's beautiful. Like she's lovely and kind and generous. Calls her Miss French like it's a secret between them—like they both know her real name but keep it hidden from everyone else.

Sometimes he looks at her like she's a stranger.

And she's not sure what's worse.

"Tell me about her," she says. It's a leap of faith, a swan-dive off a high cliff. She's falling and it feels like she's left her stomach behind.

He hides his surprise well, but he shifts his gaze down to his coffee and takes a long sip before he speaks. (Looks back up at her as a stranger.) "What do you want to know?"

"Anything."

And so he tells her. Tentatively, at first, with precise words and carefully structured sentences. Halting. A whole life broken up into digestible fragments and carefully edited. He's not saying everything, but he's saying enough.

She's tired of people hiding things from her, coddling her and redirecting her interest and tiptoeing around her as if she might break at any moment (and maybe she will). But if she breaks, she wants to break with memories, (even if they are foreign and implanted and stories woven about another woman's life). Anything is better than emptiness. Anything is better than an eternity (twenty-eight years but surely that's biologically impossible because she can't be more than thirty now) in an asylum without a single story in her head.

He tells her Belle was kind. Belle was gentle. Belle was strong. Belle was loyal and determined (his words say determined but she hears 'stubborn') and passionate. Belle was intelligent and beautiful and so very _unexpected_.

She was patient. She was forgiving. She was loving. (She was better than he deserved, and he doesn't say this either, but she hears it nonetheless.)

"You're very brave," he says.

He's slipped up before. Mister Gold is more deliberate than others. More thoughtful in his word choices. But every so often he falls into the familiar pattern of telling her who she is and what she does and what she likes, as if 'You are kind' is a reasonable substitute for self-discovery and years of forgotten memories. As if she doesn't need to discover these things on her own. (Maybe she is kind. Maybe that's true. And maybe it's not.)

So far, he's corrected himself when he says she is forgiving and she is patient and she hasn't needed to interrupt. Until now.

"You did it again."

"Did what?"

"You said I'm brave," she says.

"I did," he says.

"You mean I _was_ brave."

He shakes his head. Grows very quiet. "I mean you are brave, Miss French."

Her hands grow cold and her stomach clenches and it's a good thing they haven't ordered hamburgers because the smells of the diner make her long for the sterile-chemical-nothingness of her hospital room. She's not brave. Something's wrong, and she's not brave, she's afraid (because he looks at her like he knows everything about her, and she's finally decided it's worse. It's worse than being a stranger to him.)

She can't sit here a moment longer. Not when he's staring at her like she's his air, his sun, like she is instead of was.

She grabs her bag off the back of her seat, a small black purse with a book and a tube of lipstick and a handful of crumpled dollar bills. She places the money on the table without counting it, and stands.

"I'm sorry," he says, hand outstretched. (He's broken— and she's broken enough without feeling responsible for shattering him too.) "Belle, I'm sorry." (It's all he ever seems to say.)

Her brows crease and she purses her lips and stares down at him. Greying hair and lined face. Business suit and an outstretched hand. Polished shoes and a crooked leg.

"I'm sorry too."

And she (Miss French or 'hey you' or Jane, a shell of a woman no life and no memories and a name that isn't even hers) means every word of her apology, even as she slings her purse over her shoulder and leaves Granny's without saying goodbye. Because maybe she loved this man once. But that person (Belle, someone real and bright and sunny and wonderful enough to wipe tears from sad brown eyes) is gone.

And who knows if she'll ever come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a round of review replies the other day, so please let me know if I missed anyone! Thanks so much for the lovely comments. They really brighten my day and keep me inspired. I really appreciate all your kind words and compliments and encouragements. You guys are awesome. Thanks for being a part of this journey with me.
> 
> Also, thanks to AK. Who is awesome. She's like my muse, only less fickle and more inclined to fangirl with me over Rumbelle. Thanks, darling! -Flag Waving of Appreciation-


	4. Chapter 4

She goes by Jane now, though half the town forgets.

It doesn't fit her. She doesn't feel like Jane any more than she feels like Belle. She doesn't remember to answer when people call the name from across the room, and she needs to remember that she is Jane and not just… she. But it hardly bothers her anymore. (One name represents who she used to be, and the other represents who she wants to be—and the more she learns of Belle, the more she thinks that perhaps the two aren't so very different after all.)

Boredom bothers her.

Patronization bothers her.

Curiosity bothers her (and so do people who evade her questions and act as if she's too stupid to notice the bizarre flavour of the town, who treat her like she's… crazy… for wondering where the mayor is or why she saw the sheriff walking down the street with a sword or why the whispered name of Cora seems to send the population of Storybrooke into a collective fit.)

And so she spends her days at the library instead of the hospital—working instead of just reading. Organizing and learning how to use a computer database (and that takes a week on its own). She reads a book on fixing books, and carts volumes back to the hospital to fix cracked spines and torn pages. She locates the cleaning supplies and asks Emma if the job is still open (and what the salary is, because she intends on paying for her own hospital room and, eventually, for the apartment. Whether Mister Gold wants her to or not.)

This is her life. She'll make her own way.

Doctor Whale thinks it's healthy. He waves to her when she leaves and checks up on her when she comes home. Sometimes he brings her a new book to read from his personal collection, or a coffee, or a handful of pills and a bottle of water when the memories of the asylum grow too strong to ignore and she spends the night rocking in the corner. Sometimes he brings Archie Hopper in to talk to her the next morning, and sometimes he sits in the chair beside her bed and listens to her fragmented fears until his pager goes off.

She has good days and she has bad days—but slowly, ever so slowly like the creeping November frost or the first thaw of spring, the good outnumber the bad.

xxxx

She finds herself at Leroy's tiny house at ten o'clock at night, standing at the front door with the hip-flask of bourbon in her hand and a hundred questions and a hundred fears bubbling together in her mind.

It has been a bad day.

She was late for work (because yesterday was a bad day too and the medication makes her sleep), and when she walked into the lobby, he was there. The man who shot her. The pirate. She felt confident and smart and brave, in a pair of red heels with a fantastic grey skirt and a blue silk blouse, and he saw her and her knees turned to jelly and she nearly screamed. She felt confident and smart and brave, and he looked at her like she was nothing. Like she was a deer and he was the hunter. (Jane Doe after all.) Like he would gladly shoot her again and again.

Like they were at war, and somehow he'd already won.

She doesn't remember much else except Emma apologizing and David dragging him away into a squad car, and Doctor Whale lowering her gently into a chair beside the coffee machine. (And Mister Gold in the corner of the lobby, hands folded on his cane and watching her like a gargoyle, like a stone angel in a graveyard, like her own personal spectre of vengeance).

She hasn't left her room until now, and only because she's not quite desperate enough to drink alone.

She swallows and clears her throat and takes a breath and tightens her hand over the silver flask. She looks up at the porch-light, and up at the stars, and reminds herself that she is free. And then she knocks.

Leroy opens the door a moment later, grey sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt and no hat (his bald head gleams in dim light). His mouth is set in a scowl, but his eyes unclench when he recognizes her. He holds a television remote in his hand and peers into the darkness behind her, as if to check that she's not followed. (Perhaps by Cora.) "A bit late for a social call, don't you think?"

She holds up the bourbon with a shaking hand. "I thought maybe we could share?"

His frown unfolds into a smile (albeit, not much of a smile), and he steps barefoot onto the porch to give her room.

She steps inside, swathed in a loose sweater and jeans and flats because she could barely crawl out of her pyjamas, let alone make herself presentable. He shuts the door behind her.

"Rough night, huh?"

She nods.

He follows the hallway, past the small living room where the television blares, to the kitchen. He has a bar counter (and she's not surprised). He pulls out a couple of short squat glasses from a cupboard. She stares at the glasses, and he stares at her, and he tosses the remote onto the counter.

"Do you wanna talk about it, or should we get straight down to business?" He nods towards the glasses. She doesn't answer, but he understands her well enough when she holds out the hip flask and takes a seat on the nearest stool.

He divides the amber liquid between the two glasses without spilling a drop. His hands are rock steady. She's not even sure if she can get the cup to her mouth.

"It'll look better in the morning." He rounds the counter and pulls up a stool beside her. Her glass rasps against the linoleum countertop and she thanks him without shifting her eyes from the faux-marble pattern. "Or after three or four glasses of this, whatever comes first."

He's not joking. And though she has no intention of spending the night curled over a toilet and sobbing (Ruby warned her about overdrinking when they spent the night at the White Rabbit a few weeks ago, and she does enough sobbing while sober as it is), his words are comforting. It's nice to know he's on her side. It's nice to know he has faith in her, even if he doesn't bring her lunch like Ruby or bring her books like Doctor Whale. They sit a while in silence, to the sound of the furnace rumbling in the background and the tv still chattering away in the other room and the clink of his cup when he rests it on the counter. (She wonders how they met, the librarian and the town drunk. She doesn't think it matters.)

"That was a bad call," he says, after he's finished half his drink and she still hasn't taken a sip.

"What- what was? Coming here?"

"Naw. They should'a told you they were moving him. Doesn't matter if you were supposed to be out. You deserve to know." His voice sounds gritty, like sand on pavement, and his scowl matches his tone.

She hasn't told him about the pirate—she hasn't told him anything, actually, because her mouth isn't working and the thoughts in her mind are too jumbled to properly sort through—but news spreads quickly in this town.

"What you don't know don't hurt you? That's a load of garbage if I ever heard it." He takes another sip and keeps talking without looking at her. "What you don't know can hurt you the most. It can sneak up on you."

(What you don't know can leave you an empty shell of a person with nothing but nightmares and false hopes to fill the void.)

She finds her voice because he's not looking at her and he's not touching her and he doesn't expect anything. Doesn't treat her like a child or a mental patient or his best friend or his lost love. He _is_ and she _is_ and they drink. And so she asks, "Where are they taking him?" and her voice sounds stronger than she expects.

"It's supposed to be some sort of big secret. My guess is they'll shuffle him around for a few days to throw everyone off his scent and then toss him in the loony bin in the basement." She flinches, and he swears under his breath and takes a long swig of bourbon. "Sorry, sister."

She curls her hands tighter around her glass and nods, spilling hair into her face. "No—it's fine."

"It don't look fine."

"It will be." (She hopes.) She sips from her glass and the smell burns her nose and the taste burns her tongue and her throat like liquid fire. She coughs and Leroy attempts to hide a smirk and she pushes her hair out of her face.

"A bit stronger than iced tea, huh?"

Her eyes water and she stifles another cough, wrinkling her nose and grimacing. "A bit."

"It'll get better," he says, and she's not sure if he's talking about the bourbon or her life.

She wraps her hands around the glass, sloshing the liquid inside and watching it swirl. "Who are they hiding him from?"

He laughs, bitter and biting as the alcohol. "Sister, just about half the town wants his head. And the other half wouldn't exactly cry themselves to sleep if he went missing."

"Including… Mister Gold?" She says it like a question, but it's more of an assumption. More of something in need of confirmation than answering. Something she knows and fears (and wishes she could forget.) Because she remembers his face in the corner of the lobby, the pitiless eyes, the tight lips. The vague and foggy terror-laced memories of asphalt and yelling and a fireball and 'murder is a bad first impression'. The anger beneath the anguish, as thick and dark as blood.

"You have no idea."

"Because he shot me?"

"More than that. Sounds like they've got quite the history."

She nearly laughs (because she has no memories and it's obvious even to her that they have 'a history'.) But it's no laughing matter because Mister Gold tried to kill someone, because Mister Gold is dangerous and she's seen it in his eyes. (Eyes that looked black instead of brown, cruel and hard and unfamiliar in a hospital lobby. Eyes without tears. Eyes that could never belong to someone who smiled at her and called her Belle and apologized a hundred times.) "If he's so dangerous, why'd he stop?"

"Who knows. But I'll tell you this much…" He drains his glass and sets it down on the counter with a 'smack' of heavy glass. "If he changes his mind and decides to kill the pirate, there ain't nothing any of us can do about it."

"You really think he'd…"She pauses. Beneath her loose sweater, she's trembling all over. Knees, elbows, fingers… every inch of skin afire and itching as if it might split open and leave her covered in sores. As if she might shake free of it as easily as a cloak, and be left as exposed and bare as she feels. (But she needs to have control of _something_ , and so she takes a moment and a sip of bourbon, until her voice evens out and she doesn't sound as crazy as she feels.) "I mean, murder's pretty serious."

Leroy gives a shrug, as if it's enough to explain everything. "He's a real piece of work."

She takes another sip of her bourbon, and it's still strong and it still makes her cough. "I get that impression."

Leroy turns to her, eyes searching her face. "You want another?"

She looks down at her still half-full glass and shakes her head.

"Well, I do." He hops down off the stool. (It's high, and he's not much taller than her, and his legs only reach the bottom rung. So it really is a hop.) He rounds the counter and pulls open a cupboard.

"Can I ask you something?"

He rummages through the stash of bottles. "Sure."

"Who's Cora?"

The noise, clinking glass and sloshing liquid, stops. He pulls his hand away. Turns and looks at her with his brows knit and his jaw tight. "How do you know about her?"

"I don't. That's why I'm asking." The look on his face discourages her. It looks almost like disgust. Almost like anger. Almost like _Cora_ is something so foul it overpowers the taste of alcohol and leaves Leroy feeling sick— and she's the one who brought the name into the house and so it's all her fault. (But under the weight of his eyes, the heft of his sneer, she nurses a tiny flicker of hope because maybe he'll be the first one to answer her questions without dodging away like she's wielding a firebrand. And maybe it's a question worth the asking.)

"Why is everyone so afraid of her?"

He grumbles something she can't hear.

"Leroy, please."

He turns back to the cupboard and begins transferring bottles from cupboard to shelf, reading labels and occasionally shaking the bottles to check the volume of liquid left inside. "I'm going to need a lot more to drink before we get into that conversation."

"Will you at least tell me who she is?"

He sighs and pulls down a small squarish bottle. He opens the lid and gives it a sniff and takes it back to his glass. "Regina-"

The name sends a jolt of panic, like electricity, down her spine. "The mayor. The woman who locked me up."

He nods. "Yeah. Cora's her mom."

The shaking starts up again and it bleeds into her voice and she can't bring herself to care. "Better or worse?"

"Worse."

"Dangerous?"

He dumps a mouthful of liquid from the bottle to his glass, from his glass to his mouth. He makes a face and gives a little sigh and says, "Yup."

"You're not going to tell me anymore, are you?"

"Nope."

"I wish you would."

"No you don't, sister. You'll just have to trust me on that one."

She wants to. She wants to forget about the rumours and fears and talks of town lines and whispers of magic and sit here and enjoy a drink with an almost-friend. She wants to believe him when he implies she'd be better off in a problem-less dimension where this tiny American town was idyllic and quaint instead of filled with secrets and pitted with harm. She wants to settle into a provincial life. But she can't.

Because the town isn't idyllic. The town is filled with secrets and dangerous people. The town has people named Mister Gold who says his name is Rumplestiltskin—and she hides behind her books, but that doesn't mean her ears don't work—and she's heard more than Rumplestiltskin, she's heard Snow White and Frankenstein and Hook and Evil Queen and _Cora_. And maybe it's real or maybe it's an elabourate hoax or a science experiment or maybe she's just losing her mind.

But either way, she wants to know. (She's been left in the dark far too long.)

She finishes her drink.

Leroy leads her down the hallway, past the flickering-chattering television room, onto the porch. The air is cold and she's pleasantly tired and maybe she'll sleep tonight if she doesn't dream of magic and monsters. He offers to drive her home but she waves him off (because she has no home, only a suitcase in a hospital room) and the night is agreeable and she'd rather walk. And so she does. Through the silent town on silent sidewalks. Past the library and Mister Gold's shop (and there's a light on inside, and he must be working) and Granny's diner and the bar and all the familiar-unfamiliar places she's grown to know over the last several weeks. Past the places that remind her she is outside (if not free) and she is alive (if not sane) and she is here (if not safe).

She slips in through the lobby long after midnight. She walks to her room with her gaze locked on the tiled floor because she can still feel their eyes (pawnbroker and pirate, brown and icey blue) boring into her like intravenous syringes of panic. She crawls under her too-thin blankets, and curls against a pile of clothes she wishes was another human being, and does not sleep.

It's been a bad day.

But she will fix herself, like she fixes library books, and Jane French will be more Eyre than Doe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, thank you so much for the great response! I'm completely honoured. I really hope you continue to enjoy the direction I'm takig the story, and thanks so much for the great feedback. I'll do my best to reply to the reviews ASAP, but if you don't hear back from me in a couple of weeks, please send me a message and remind me! Also, thanks to AK for being da bomb. As always. Much love, dearest.


	5. Chapter 5

Jane sits on the chair in the corner of her room, curled up into the hard lumpy plastic as tightly as she can manage, and leafs through _Jane Eyre_ for the fourth time. She’s finished the Austen novels and _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and everything by Victor Hugo she can get her hands on—she’s torn through Doctor Whale’s medical thrillers and Ruby’s romances (and Emma doesn’t read much but Henry’s extra copy of _James and the Giant Peach_ managed to find its way into her growing stack of books)— and she finds herself back at the beginning. Back with the Brontës. Back with Jane and Rochester and Thornfield Hall. And it doesn’t matter that she’s memorized half the passages by now (because there’s nothing to jumble her memory so memorization is easier than it should be, perhaps) because they are comforting. They are familiar.

It’s funny how a story (about a girl without a place to call her own) can make a quiet hospital room feel like home.

She’s half-way through the fourteenth chapter when she hears voices. Not voices in her head, thank heavens (though it gives her momentary pause), but Emma and Doctor Whale. They’ve stopped walking and this wing of the hospital is empty enough and quiet enough that their voices drift through the open door with perfect clarity. But they don’t know that.

“I don’t like it,” Emma says.

“I don’t either.”

“Then why are we doing this again?”

“Because it’s the law.”

Emma’s the sheriff, but she mumbles some not-quite-audible complaint about “buzzkill rules” under her breath, and it makes Jane almost-smile.

“Unfortunately, Sheriff, our opinions don’t matter. He’s her emergency contact—“ And Jane realizes they’re talking about her, about her emergency contact. “—and he should have been notified the moment she was admitted. We’re pushing the boundaries as it is.”

She hears something like the rustle of fabric, and the scuffing of shoes, and she imagines Emma grabbing Whale’s arm. “You know what he tried to do.”

Her blood runs cold. She wonders if they’re talking about Mister Gold.

He’s dangerous, she knows. Emma doesn’t like him, she knows.

She’s not sure what he “tried to do”, but he (nearly) murdered and (overtly) threatened and is dangerous. (Just not to her.) And perhaps they’ve been keeping him away, which is why she hasn’t seen him in weeks, apart from fleeting glances in the street or his regular routine of ordering a coffee to-go from Granny’s at precisely 8 AM. But it would make sense if he were her emergency contact. The man who loved Belle… and whom Belle loved.

(For Whom the _Belle_ Tolls. She’s read that too.)

Whale is still talking and Jane bites her lip and lowers her book and unfolds her legs. She leans forward in her chair and cocks her head to hear better. “It’s done now. I can’t keep lying to him. If she wants to see him, she had medical clearance long ago.”

Footsteps muffle the remainder of their conversation—and she can’t hear, but she needs to know because this is a piece of the mysterious puzzle, another link to her past she has not yet explored. Because this is a secret and there are already too many, and she may buckle under the weight of the unknown. And so she stands and leaves her book on the seat and makes her way closer to the door.

Doctor Whale sounds exasperated. “I’m sorry Sheriff, but it’s final. I’m going to tell her he’s here.” The wall echoes with the sound of his tentative knock. “Jane, may I come in?”

He peeks his head through the open door and she stands only feet away. His eyes widen, eyebrows raised. She stops in place. She stands with her hands in front of her, clenched tight around the hem of her knitted green sweatshirt.

“Who’s here?” she asks. She feels a momentary flash of guilt for eavesdropping, but squashes it with a show of white-knuckled determination. (Besides, it’s only Doctor Whale and Emma. No reason to be afraid. No reason to cower.)

Whale steps into the room. Emma slides in behind him, hands shoved in her pockets and brow furrowed with reluctant annoyance.

Jane offers Emma a tiny smile and unclenches her fist long enough to wave.

“Belle, hey,” she says in return, irritation smoothing somewhat. Doctor Whale elbows her and she clears her throat. “Jane, I mean.”

Jane turns her eyes back to Whale. “Who’s here?”

He holds up a hand. “First of all, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before. This might be a bit of a shock for you—”

Emma cuts in. “—it’s your dad.”

Whale’s jaw tightens.

Like a glass vial dropped down a long well, the news takes a moment to trickle down into her already treacherous sense of reality. But when it hits bottom (when her mind reels and her heart aches and her hope swells because _she has a father_ and _she is not alone_ ), her mouth shakes itself into an almost-smile.

“My-“ Her voice catches. Her eyes widen and her hands grip the bottom of her sweater tighter than she would have thought possible. “My father?”

Neither of them answer for a long, tremulous moment. Time itself seems to slink away, distorted and stretched out and dragging on forever. And she looks between them, eyes flitting with almost-excitement and almost-hope (and more almost-happiness than she’s felt in long empty days.)

“Maurice French,” Whale offers, finally.

“Moe,” Emma says at almost the same moment.

“Where is he?” Jane asks.

“The cafeteria,” Whale says.

Emma hooks her thumbs into her belt. “Not if I had anything to do with it.” Whale turns to look at Emma, eyes narrowed. She raises her eyebrows. “What?”

And maybe she should ask why they were arguing, why Emma is so suspicious and so guarded, why they didn’t tell her right away—why her father, like everything else in this town, was kept a secret from her. (Why honesty is so scarce. Why she has to run to pry answers from Leroy with the neck of a bottle. Why Mister Gold looks at her with sad brown eyes and always tells her the truth.)

But she doesn’t. She just stands and lets the implications of _father_ roll over her like waves of purple smoke.

“Do you want us to bring him here?” Whale asks.

She smiles, a real genuine smile that parts her lips and scrunches her eyes and helps to dull the lonely ache in her chest. “No,” she says, and she looks at her suitcase against the wall. Runs her eyes over fabrics and feels the urge to change her clothes (like a new start). “I’ll go to him.”

 

xxxx

 

Her courage begins to falter by the time she reaches the cafeteria, but Emma has gone ahead and Whale’s pager is tucked in the back pocket of her jeans (and she is wearing a navy blue blouse she has never worn before). So she presses on. She walks across tiled floors with clicking heels, and fixes her eyes on the brightness of Emma’s jacket, and clutches _Jane Eyre_ to her chest to combat near-suffocating anxiety.

Emma steps aside, brow still furrowed and mouth pressed tight. For the first time in months (for the first time she remembers), Jane sees her father.

He’s a large man, with a broad nose and a jowly face. (She is suddenly afraid of letting him down.)

He wears a khaki jacket and a white baseball cap and jeans all smudged with dirt, and even from here she can see he has calloused hands. (She is afraid of disappointing him, like she has disappointed so many others.)

As he concludes his discussion with Emma, she can hear his voice: deep and heavy, with a broad rounded accent, like hers. And she can see his hair: brown and curly, like hers. His eyes are shaded by the hat, but she is afraid his eyes will be brown (and old and sad, and to him she’ll always be Belle, and she’ll be nothing more than a familiar sort of stranger).

Emma folds her arms over her chest and nods her head in Jane’s direction, and the florist – Moe French, _her father_ – pulls off his hat. He turns blue eyes in her direction and smiles.

(She is afraid he’ll be wonderful, and she won’t measure up.)

She barely has time to smile back before he pushes Emma out of the way and charges towards her like a bull. Heavy work boot footsteps on the tiles, a heavy smile and a heavy syllable of “Belle!” dropping from his lips like an anvil—and before she can move to put her book between her tiny body and his great bulk, his heavy arms wrap around her.

His hands press against her back, and she can feel the meat of them, the callouses through her thin silk blouse. And she doesn’t know him. And he’s touching her. But he’s nearly crying and his broad chest is warm, and he’s calls her “darling”. And he’s Moe French the florist, _her father_ (and he smells of dirt and daffodils), so she lets him hold her until her skin crawls with spiders and his arms close around her like walls (and until she needs escape more than safety).

She wiggles away. She squirms her arms up between them and pushes against him and says, “please, please stop”, and out of the corner of her blurry vision she can see Emma take a step forward.

She gives a last shove and he lets her go. She stumbles back into open air, two stutter-steps backwards to keep from falling.

His eyes (blue like hers) widen. “I’m so sorry,” he says. He holds a hand out, half-way to her.

Despite her reeling head, she regains her balance. Her eyes flick down to the floor and she can see Emma’s boots nearby and she clutches her book close to her chest. Doctor Whale’s pager is in her back pocket and she manages to choke out, “It’s- it’s okay.”

“Belle, I never meant—”

She isn’t Belle.

But she is afraid of disappointing him, so she looks up. Matching blue eyes make contact. She nods, and tries to hide her tears behind a smile. “W-” she pauses, looks side-eyed to Emma, who looks as though a thundercloud has just soaked her favourite picnic lunch, and takes a steadying breath. “Would you like to sit down… Father?”

Happiness seems to shrink him tenfold. His eyes crinkle and his face creases up with lines like a crumpled sheet of paper. He grabs her hand (and she _hates_ it, it makes her skin crawl, her pulse rush and she wants to pull away) and he squeezes it (and does not notice how much it hurts her) and she wishes she could remember him (because maybe the action would feel like comfort instead of torment).

He is her father and he she does not find him wonderful (like she hoped and feared), but she has not disappointed him, either. And so she keeps smiling until he leads her to the nearest table and pulls out a chair for her.

She rests her book on her lap and he sits in Mister Gold’s seat across the linoleum tabletop. (She notices Emma plop down at a nearby table with a folded newspaper she ostensibly intends to read and wonders how this smiling bulldog of a man—how her father—could warrant such a guard. She wonders what he “tried to do”.) But she doesn’t ask.

They talk.

Or rather, he talks.

She offers the occasional question, but conversation burbles from him like a brook, gentle and musical in his rolling accent and his soothing voice. Anecdotes of a flower shop punctuated by laughter. Years of gossip gleaned from living in a small town (the time Mister So-and-So bought flowers for his mistress and sent them to his wife, last-year’s funeral decorated in hot-pink carnations by bequest of the deceased, Granny’s seventh consecutive ‘29th birthday party’ hosted by Ruby and strung up with chains of wildflowers, and a grand prize to whoever guessed her real age).

And sadness, too.

How he lived alone for so long. With only pictures of a dead wife for company, trudging day-to-day with the constant hope of a hospital call telling him his daughter was cleared to come home. How he had nearly lost Belle, even when he had found her. How he doesn’t intend to make that mistake again.

He smiles, and tries to clasp her hands (except she moves them to her lap, hidden under the table), and tells her they have a chance.

For a fresh start.

For a new beginning.

For everything he had hoped and dreamed—even if she never remembers her mother, or even if she wants to go by Jane instead of Belle—because now they’re finally together. Nothing is keeping them apart.

(And it’s funny how _nothing_ brings him such hope, when it so violently drives her away from everyone else she ever knew.)

It’s funny, so she laughs, but uneasiness turns it dull and it breaks apart mid-air, like porcelain smashed against a concrete wall.

Her father doesn’t notice, and he talks of everything and nothing until his watch goes off. The alarm is warbling and high-pitched and it slices into her brain like heart-rate monitors and pagers. His exuberance melts away and he pushes a button to silence the belle.“I should be getting back,” he says. “Lunch break’s over and the shop won’t open itself.”

“It was nice to see you,” she says.

“You too,” he says, but his smile is heavy (and his eyes are heavy on her, two pinpoints of focus that weigh more than lead) and he’s slow to leave. He’s fishing for something. Waiting for something. “I missed you, you know.”

She smiles and nods.

He stands, but he doesn’t step away. He fidgets with his watch, adjusts it on his wrist and fiddles with the clasp. “Would you—ah—” He looks from the floor to her face, brow furrowed. “You’ll come to dinner, of course. Won’t you?”

It’s not quite a request and it’s not quite a command and it’s not quite an invitation (not quite a plea, like the chance for a hamburger). It’s not quite what she wants, but not what she _doesn’t_ want, either. It’s too soon and too uncertain and too assuming of him, but his hope is tied up in her answer and perhaps this is her second chance. And so she says yes.

Plans are made for Wednesday, and she lets him kiss her on the cheek (with gritted teeth and squeezed-shut eyes).

He leaves.

Emma folds her paper, disappears, and returns a moment later with a package of cookies from the vending machine. Jane Eyre confronts Rochester, accompanied by the taste of chocolate and the cool feel of linoleum under her forearms, and Jane French waits for Wednesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for reading, everybody. I know I haven't replied to many of you, but I really really do appreciate it! I've just had midterms and essays due, and I figure using my time to actually WRITE the chapter (which I've barely had time to do) takes precedence over replying to reviews for the time being. But I have a little break until next month when all the madness starts again (yay exams!), so hopefully I'll be able to write AND reply within the next couple weeks. On the plus side, I'm still three chapters ahead-- so I'll still be updating weekly unless things degenerate into übermadness. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you thank you thank you again, and thanks to Anti-Kryptonite who is awesome (and looks over stories for me and pats me on the back when I hate things and straightens out all my silly typos) and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Also, never fear! I promise Gold and a smidgeon of happiness in the next chap. :) And it'll be worth waiting for... I hope. xD


	6. Chapter 6

The books have already been organized (by another her, in another life). But long weeks have passed since Belle, and dust has reconquered the building. It coats everything, muffles the colours of cloth-bound spines with a haze of grey, deadens the shine of polished banisters and bookshelves and tiles. It peppers the air and spirals lazily through beams of light, and she intends to master it.

She starts with the windows. (There is an old toolbox in a janitor's cupboard and she arms herself with a hammer and a crowbar to pry the boards away.) She mops the floors. (A broom and mop in the same cupboard, and a bucket on wheels with a bit of soap and vinegar.) She cracks open the front door for extra air, and ties a cloth around her mouth and nose… and then she dusts.

She cleans the furniture first. Most of the chairs are plastic, or wood, or faux-leather armchairs tucked in the corners, and those can be wiped off easily enough. But there are also beanbag chairs in the children's section (colourful and lumpy and filled with pores). So she takes those out onto the sidewalk and beats them with a broom handle until they send up reams of dust like false-smoke. Until it must look, from a distance, like she's lighting things on fire and watching them smoulder.

She will reclaim the building from dust and disorder. (She will reclaim her life.)

And then she will open the library.

xxxx

It takes her three days to reach the bookshelves. But she does, little by little, in frenzied little bursts of cleaning and long stretches of grit determination. Polished railings and oiled door hinges, a second thorough beating of the beanbag chairs, a futile attempt to get the elevator to work—and she is ready to confront the endless rows of dust-coated books. She clenches a clean cloth between her teeth like a pirate scuttling up a ship's rigging, and climbs the ladder. Except instead of a weapon, she carries a rag. And instead of pillaging and plundering, she intends to dust the shelves.

She's cleaned half the gardening section when she hears footsteps.

Her heart stutters. Nearly stops.

Against the silence of nothingness, the steps echo.

It's probably nothing (it's Ruby, or Emma, or Archie or her father), but habitual and indistinct terrors make it so hard to focus—so very hard to concentrate or reason or use her mind for anything but conjuring a worst case scenario – hard to do anything except to torment herself with images of pirates and fireballs and car crashes and gunshots. But somehow, in the midst of it all, she finds the will to speak.

"I'm sorry," she says, and her voice is self-assured and confident (whereas she is trembling and gnawed down to the bone with fear), "but the library's closed."

A moment's pause. And then a voice.

"It's Mister Gold. May I come in?"

(Mister Gold. Rumple or Rumplestiltskin or whatever-his-real-name-is, and she can't tell if she's relieved or terrified to hear him. She's shaking so violently, it could mean either.)

She leans her forehead against the cool wood of the shelf, focusing on breathing . Focusing on the ladder, and balance, and not toppling head first into cold tile. Focusing on the hesitant, tentative question he asks (a question because it is _her choice_ to let him in, because it was Belle's library and he gave her the key).

"Miss French?"

She wants to hide. She wants to hide and not reply and not come out until Ruby drives up in a red mustang and takes her to Granny's for lunch. But he'll find her, if he cares to look. And he'll wonder why she hides, when he's only been kind to her and careful with her, as if he knows she might break. The answer is easy: she hides because she's afraid.

She hides because she is afraid, but she is also determined. And she is trying to be brave. And she wants answers (about him, about the world, about everything) more than comfort. More than safety. And so she makes her choice.

"I—" Her bravery fails on the first attempt. But she clears her throat and coughs (and pretends it's from the dust) and presses on. "I'm over here. In 'Gardening'."

His footsteps resume, restart, begin to scuffle-clack closer. Her hands grip the ladder. She presses her lips together—but when he rounds the corner… his appearance is oddly anticlimactic. No jolt of panic. No cold sweat, or terror buzzing in her brain like the hum of electrical wires. For the first time, her mind perceives him, not as a monster (with fire in his hand and hate in his tar-black eyes) but as a quiet old man with a cane and a picnic basket slung over his arm.

It's a relief (and there's her answer, she's _relieved_ to see him).

He stops abruptly at the sight of her on the ladder. His hands are unsteady as he slings the picnic basket from his arm and onto the floor. He takes three steps forward, and his hand is on the middle rung, steadying it (and she didn't know it was shaking, she didn't know she was so close to losing her balance) until she scrambles down and finds her footing on solid ground once more.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"I didn't mean to startle you." It's another apology. She has a pretty collection by now, it seems. (She's not sure if he errs more than everyone else, or just tries harder to admit it.)

"It's—it's fine," she says. And it really is. Because she'd rather it be him than the pirate. Him than some unfamiliar terror. Him because he's dangerous (but not to her). She wipes dusty hands on her dusty skirt and asks, "What can I do for you, Mister Gold?"

"Nothing."

"Then what do you want?" The words tumble from her mouth, coated in suspicion, washing away the veneer of polite behaviour. But he doesn't chastise her, or tell her to behave, or to mind her tongue. And he doesn't threaten her with sedatives for being ( _hysterical_ ) uncivil.

He only smiles a sad little smile and picks up the basket. "I just wanted to give this to you." He makes no move to force it upon her. He doesn't step forward, or reach out, or speak—just stands there with it slung over his arm. (It's so out of place, light wicker against a navy suit.) He's silent and still and he waits.

Something about his patience settles her nerves.

"Okay," she says, and he reaches across the gap between them. Even when their hands meet (accidentally, because the handle isn't big enough and she needs to use both hands to lift it from his arm), he keeps to himself. For a moment he looks like a wounded animal (big sad eyes staring at his hand, as if the touch frightened him more than it frightened her). But then he curls his hands around the handle of his cane, lets his fingers dance atop the gold, and he swathes himself in control and quiet confidence once more. But she notices he still doesn't look at her.

She bites her lips and tears her gaze away. (He can't look at her, but she can't seem to stop staring.) She glances down to the basket. The lid is fastened with a tiny metal latch, and when she pulls it open with fumbling fingers to reveal plastic-wrapped sandwiches, cookies, and an assortment of fresh fruit and vegetables, she frowns. "You brought me lunch."

He smiles, inclines his head. "If I recall correctly, cleaning always gave you quite the appetite." His eyes flick away, though his smile never wavers. "I thought you might be hungry."

She is hungry.

And she is supposed to be meeting Ruby for lunch at two.

But there is something in his quavering, hesitant smile that depends on her answer, something hopeful and delicate and too easily crushed. (And her breath catches at the thought of seeing it die—because she's broken too much of his already.)

So she carries the basket to the table.

The tension eases out of his shoulders.

She pulls out three different sandwiches, each carefully halved, and a plastic container of carrot sticks in water. An apple, an orange, a banana, and a luscious bunch of grapes. A water bottle and a vacuum flask. Chocolate chip cookies in plastic wrap. More than enough food, even for someone with quite the appetite. She arranges the food into a small lineup, presented for inspection, and looks to Mister Gold out of the corner of her eye.

He watches her without really watching her. Gazes from a distance, careful glances measured and divided between her surroundings. His eyes flitting over the shelves, the chair, the floor—and then resting on her, so feather-light she hardly notices—and then back to the windows, his shoes, his hands.

She realizes another choice hangs in the balance. (Another choice that makes her hands tremble and jaw tighten and stomach roil.) She opens the vacuum flask and draws her nose close to catch the scent of iced-tea. (Another choice could well determine her fate. Carve out a new path in a new direction.) She pulls out the single plastic cup from the basket and fills it. And then she slides it across the table in front of an empty wooden chair. (Another choice that will make her brave.)

"Would you care to join me?"

Behind his measured expression, his eyes flare to life, joy and sadness and gratitude like a bonfire. Like a fireball. Restraint and not-quite-hope and inconsolable pain staring back from the depths of an endless dark tunnel. It wounds him, and it frightens her, but he says 'yes, of course' and he crosses the floor with the slow, halting steps of a man in a daze. They sit across from one another at the small wooden table and she unwraps the sandwiches.

"Thank you for inviting me," he says.

"You sound surprised."

He gives a shrug and does not answer. She pushes the container of carrot sticks across the table, and pulls several from the dripping water. Long, delicate fingers that can't quite hide a tremble. And she realizes that he is terrified-or-possibly-relieved, just like her.

She wonders—and before she can quell the urge, her thoughts become words. "If you didn't expect to stay, why did you make so much food?"

"I didn't know what kind you liked," he says.

"That's—" That's not the answer she expected. (But it's the truth.) "That's very kind of you," she says.

"Now you sound surprised."

"I suppose I am." She likes all the sandwiches well enough, so she takes a half of each and slides the remaining halves over to Gold. She decides to trade him, honesty for honesty. "I was—I am—a little afraid of you, you know."

He accepts the sandwiches (and her admission) without a word, and takes a sip of iced-tea from the little plastic cup.

"But I think I'm getting better." She glances down to the table, adjusts her sandwiches and lines up the edges of the crusts. She folds her hands into her lap to keep from fiddling and looks up at him, studying him with a tilted head and narrowed eyes. "You know, you seem… different... than I expected. Considering what everyone says about you."

"And what do they say?" He asks the question with a tiny smirk curling at the edge of his lips, like he already knows the answer.

(That he's cruel and heartless and conniving and she's heard so many rumours it makes her head buzz just to think of them all.)

"That you're a monster," she says. But he doesn't seem like one. Not now, anyway. Not when his eyebrows raise in sardonic amusement, and his eyes twinkle with secrets. Not when they're sitting in the library together, with sandwiches and carrot sticks spread out before them like a grand feast.

"Appearances can be deceiving," he says. He picks up a carrot and twirls it between his fingers. "What else do they say?"

"That you're dangerous."

He laughs—or at least, she thinks it's a laugh. It's a quiet sort of scoff, air through his mouth and a cruel twist of his lips. "Of course they do." Bitter and sardonic.

"Are they lying?"

A shake of his head, a gentle sway of his hair around his face. "No." His eyes drop to the table, and he sets the carrot back on the corner of his plastic-wrap, flicking a droplet of water away. "Not about that, no."

"Oh." It's all she can think to say. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You asked," he says.

Silence clatters down like a toppled-over ladder.

She takes a bite of her first sandwich (tuna, though she barely notices how it tastes because everything is coated with fear and confusion and relief, and everything is sawdust in her mouth) and tries not to stare at him as she chews. But it's difficult, because he is an enigma. He is (maybe) a monster who (maybe) still loves her. And (maybe) if he loves her he's not a monster after all.

And for the first time she wishes Mister Gold was more like her father—all stories and chatter and sucking the air out of the room. Because maybe he overwhelmed her and crowded her—but at least then she could let herself be swept away in the conversation. At least then she wouldn't have to scramble to fill the silence. Because if Gold was like her father, she wouldn't notice how wounded and bleeding and quiet and old and _so very_ sad he looked. And it would be easier.

Another question bubbles to the surface of her mind. She snaps a carrot stick in half and stares down at it—bright and over-saturated after a lifetime in a hospital (and the endless hours of dust). She presses her thumb nail against the carrot and leaves a dent. "Why are you doing all this for me?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"I think everyone has reasons for what they do."

(It's her opinion. Her very own.)

"I made a promise," he says after a long moment.

She looks up. "With Belle?"

A nod.

"What did you promise her?"

He looks uncomfortable. It's a personal question. A prying question. But he's only ever been honest with her and so he tears off a corner of his sandwich and answers, "I promised I'd protect her."

"And… that's why you're bringing me sandwiches?" It's a question, but her voice dips at the end as her brows crinkle together.

He stares at the broken piece of bread in his hands, turns it slowly with long fingers. He shakes his head. "No," he says. His voice is a whisper, his voice belongs in the hush of the library (except the library should be a place where she feels happy and safe, not like her heart is being tugged from her chest with razor wire). "I'm bringing you sandwiches because I couldn't keep that promise."

The metaphorical razor wire does its work. She folds her arms across her chest, as if it might keep her heart in, the cold out, as if it might stop the words from burrowing into the back of her mind and haunting her nightmares. (And she doesn't remember—and it feels like getting shot all over again—so she can only imagine how it must hurt him.)

She manages to untangle her arms long enough to take a sip of iced-tea, straight from the flask. (If Leroy had brought her lunch, there'd be something stronger. She thinks she could use something stronger.) "It was… an accident."

"No," he says. His voice is all edges and broken glass (and he is dangerous, she knows, and this time she believes it). "No, this was no accident. This was a tragedy." The sandwich drops onto the plastic wrap and he stabs a finger into the table hard enough to make a 'thud'. "And I was powerless to stop it."

He's right. It is a tragedy. Her entire life is a loss, from the start. She exists because another woman was snuffed out—Jane for Belle, and she doesn't think it's worth the trade. And it hurts to recognize it. It hurts to realize that she's walking around town like Belle's ghost and Belle's (forgotten) memories and everyone else has to live with the bereavement of a woman she can't even remember.

It hurts to know that he (Mister Gold or Rumple or Rumplestiltskin) sees the face of the woman he loved looking back at him with tears and terror.

She wants to touch him. (It startles her, as sudden and unexpected as her first laughter or his appearance in her library long minutes ago.) But she wants to touch him because nobody touches him—because he needs touch almost as much as she needs _not_ to be touched. Because his face is still and his eyes are cast down, but she can tell he's being torn apart by a thousand shards of shrapnel and maybe a touch will help stop the bleeding.

But she isn't brave.

And she isn't Belle.

And she doesn't think her touch will make enough of a difference, when the brush of his skin against her fingertips will bear such a heavy price. (But maybe her words can help.) "Do you think she'd forgive you?" she asks, careful to keep her voice quiet and gentle and hopeful and kind.

"I don't know," he says. She can hear almost-tears in his voice, even if his eyes are dry and locked onto a plastic-wrap-platter of picnic lunch.

She wishes he had a better answer. It would help her understand Belle—what she wanted and what she liked, what type of person she was. What she thought of Mister Gold is important—because it could speak volumes of him (and volumes of Belle, and offer her an encyclopaedic understanding of their common loss).

But he doesn't have an answer. And so she decides to give him one. (And she hopes she's right, because it would break her heart to lie to him after all the truths he's given.)

"I think she would," she says, finally.

His head snaps up. (And why is it that every sudden action reminds her of the sound of a gun, why his head snaps up _as if he heard a gunshot_ instead of _as if she spoke unexpected words_?)

She shudders, and her breath is shaky (and her words come to her in fits and starts and porcelain fragments). But he needs those words, and so she tries to piece them together.

"I don't know much about her—I mean, I don't remember—but I think she would. Forgive you. If you're trying, and if you're sorry…" It's a foolish thing to say because of course he's sorry and of course he's trying. Anyone who looks at him can see that, plain as day. But she thinks he needs to hear it (and she thinks he needs to be touched, but she keeps her arms where they are). "I don't think she could ask for more."

Tight lips, shimmering searching eyes across her face, and he rips another corner off his sandwich even though he hasn't eaten a single bite.

"Thank you," he says. "For saying that."

"You're welcome," she says.

He lifts the torn sandwich into his mouth and chews. She pops the remainder of her carrot stick into her mouth.

They eat lunch together.

He's quiet, but they both relax after half a sandwich and half a thermos of iced-tea, and she finds she can coax little stories and little jokes out of him. And it's not as bad as she had feared, not strained or terrifying or agonizing. In fact, it's almost comfortable, because he occasionally smiles and she occasionally laughs. Because he's funnier than he lets on, (and maybe eventual hamburgers aren't such a bad idea after all).

When they finish lunch, he helps her clean the table. She returns his (nearly empty) picnic basket, and walks him to the door.

Her heels clack on the tiles. His cane makes a rubber-stopper squeak.

"Thank you," she says again.

"You're most welcome… Jane." The word seems to stick, but she hardly notices the hesitation because it's the first time he's called her Jane. (And it takes a moment to remember that Jane is her name because his mouth always calls her Miss French and his eyes always call her _Belle_.)

"Will you—" She swallows, tightens her hands over her sleeves (over dark grey dusty sleeves, and she wishes she was wearing something brighter). "Will you come back?"

He turns slowly to face her, keeping his distance still, with a picnic basket on his arm. His lips twitch, an almost-smile of almost-hope (and she almost-smiles back), and he asks, "Do you want me to?"

She doesn't know. (But she thinks she might.) She shrugs. A quick glance up to him, teeth catching her bottom lip. "Do you want to?"

"That's not what I asked," he says.

She rallies her strength. And then she nods.

"Okay then," he says. "I'll suppose I'll see you later." His accent is thick, and the 'r' at the end of the word rolls away from him. "Good luck with your cleaning."

Her mind is already backpedalling, spinning wild and panicked thoughts through her head, flooding her veins with jittery ice water. But she remembers he tells her the truth. She remembers he is kind to her. She remembers she has a choice.

And for a moment (and maybe a moment is all she needs), she is brave.

She looks up at him and smiles. "I'll see you later, Mister Gold."

His smile turns sad, but it's still a smile (and this is the first time she's given him reason to smile at their parting) and it ignites a flicker of courage inside her. "Goodbye, Miss French."

When Mister Gold disappears into his shop across the street, she closes the door and slides the deadbolts into place.

When the clock strikes two, she pulls her phone from her pocket and texts Ruby for a rain-check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI PEEPS. Mister Gold and a smidgeon of happiness, as promised. :)
> 
> Thank so much for reading, reviewing, faving, etc. chapter six, also affectionately titled 'GOLD'S LUNCH'. (with capital letters, always.) Of course I enjoy writing for myself (and for AK, mah darling beta and friend who is awesome), but writing for you guys is a huge part of it too, and I'm so gratified that everyone's continuing to tune in each week! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. Hopefully it was worth the wait!
> 
> Also, I'm continually sorry for not replying to anyone. I basically just suck at life, and the explanation is that 1: I was failing German so 2: I spent so much time on German that now I'm not failing it 3: but now I'm not doing SO great at my other stuff because I spent so much time working on German and 4: it's a toss up between writing, sleep, and replying to people, and I'm kind of lazy so sleep usually trumps and writing comes next. So my apologies. I haven't forgotten. It just might have to wait until after exams, unless I can get my act together.
> 
> BUT I LOVE YOU ALL AND YOU ALL ROCK. Peace out.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything is ‘fine’ on Wednesdays (but not much better).

Everything is ‘fine’ with her father, but from what she’s read of fathers, fine is merely a shade of what should be. (A gloomy spectre, because she could fly into his arms and call him daddy. A dim reflection, because they could dance together on the living room carpet, just for a laugh and a smile. A mirage as heavy as blanketing nightfall, because she could love him, and her visits are only fine.)

By the second Wednesday— when she finds herself shuffling reluctantly from sterile hospital room to cramped bungalow, for a mediocre dinner and equally inspiring company— she knows something has to change. She wants so much more from her life than anything ‘fine’ can offer.

But she doesn’t know what to do about it.

And so she goes to dinner.

And she sits. And she waits. And she smiles at the appropriate times, and tries not to flinch when he places a hand on her arm, and chews undercooked spaghetti in almost-silence. She pushes her dinner around on her plate, and feels like a guilty child. And her father, for all his blustering and self-propelled chatter, notices.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, between a mouthful of pasta and a sip of red wine. (He wears half-a-suit: dress pants and a dress shirt with the top collar open and the cuffs unbuttoned. It doesn’t fit him in manner or sleeve length.)

She forces a smile and shakes her head. She should meet his eyes, but the pasta sauce is garishly red in the orange-yellow of the overhead lamp, and it’s easier to smile at her plate.

“Not hungry?”

“I just had a late lunch, that’s all."

“What did you have?”

“Cobb salad,” she says. Her eyes flick up to the basket of garlic bread, and then down to the skirt of her yellow dress. “And fresh bread.”

“Sounds delicious.”

She smiles and nods and cuts a strand of spaghetti in half with the side of her fork.

She imagines he eats at Granny’s as often as he eats at home (the undercooked spaghetti reinforces her suspicion), because he nods thoughtfully and says, “New on the menu?”

“Homemade.”

“Trying your hand at cooking now?” He twirls his spaghetti onto his fork and then looks up at her, mouth broad and smiling, blue eyes crinkling with amusement. “Well, at least you’re guaranteed to be better at it than your old dad.”

“Dinner is fine, Father. Thank you.” She smiles, and looks up at him (he looks so strange, bare-headed, and he holds his fork like a garden spade). He smiles back at her and she shakes her head. “But I said it was homemade—I never said I made it.”

Besides, how can she make it ‘homemade’ when she doesn’t have a home?

She hasn’t done much cooking since _before_ , because she doesn’t have a stove or a fridge at the hospital. Because she doesn’t have pots and pans unless she uses Emma’s and Mary Margaret’s, and their tiny apartment is already filled to bursting without her invading their kitchen. And why should she?—when there are cafeterias and restaurants and people bringing her casseroles (like she’s sick or there’s been a funeral).

“Did Ruby make it?”

She shakes her head. Hair falls into her face, and she would tie it up with the yellow ribbon she wears in a bow around her wrist, except that it makes her neck and shoulders feel so exposed. (Except that her hair protects her, like the napkin lying across her lap protects her dress, and cold air on bare skin still makes her want to cry.)

“Emma?”

Another shake of her head.

He begins to recite his way through the list (including Doctor Whale and Leroy, who she doesn’t think has ever eaten a salad in his life), and each time she shakes her head. His smile slips with each failed guess (and for the first time she wonders if his happiness is as forced as her own), until he holds up his hands and shrugs. “I give up. Who is it?”

“Mister Gold.”

She says it like it should be obvious. And maybe it should, if she and Gold were as close ( _before_ ) as everyone says they were. And surely her father should have guessed, except that his burly tan face looks pale and almost thin, and his features sharpen and set like concrete blocks, and his fists tighten over his cutlery.

“Gold?” He says the name with a tremble in his voice, (like a warning Belle¸ like klaxons sounding in her mind.)

“Yes?” She answers like a question, though she doesn’t mean it that way.

What she means is that _yes_ , Mister Gold made her lunch. And _yes_ , she ate with him. And _yes_ , he’s only been kind to her, and _yes_ this is a good thing (because she was terrified … and now she’s not). And her father should be happy for her, because she can walk down the street without shaking, and she can pass his shop without crossing the street, and she can laugh and smile and maybe soon she can move into the library. Maybe leave the confining safety of hospital walls behind her, forever.

But answers like a question because her father’s blue eyes widen in horror— and he stares at her like she’s destroyed his favourite flower bed. Like months of hard work have been trampled underfoot and she’s the one with soil on her shoes. Like he doesn’t know her. (And he doesn’t, not really.)

“Belle—” She’s not Belle. “—are you saying you ate lunch with Mister Gold?”

“Is—there a problem with that?”

Her father sets his fork (with the spaghetti still twirled around it) down on the plate with a clink of glass and metal. His broad, calloused hand rubs his jaw and rasps against his stubble. “Yes, there’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because.” A flush of angry red begins to creep up his neck and into his face. He puts his hand on the back of his neck (like it aches, like the very name of Mister Gold bruises him) and she thinks she might see pain and fear and almost-tears in his eyes. (But the lamp is dim and it’s hard to see.) His jaw clenches so tightly that his jowls shake. “Because he’s a monster.”

She bites her lip. She cuts another piece of spaghetti in half.

He begins to sputter. “He’s—he’s a brute. He’s cruel. He destroys everything he touches and he’ll destroy you too.”

Surely not after all this time. Not when the image of Mister Gold (in his dress-shirt with rolled up sleeves, taking time from his busy life to slice chicken and cheese into tiny symmetrical squares just for her) fills her stomach with warmth instead of icy terror. Not after he’s proven himself and everyone in town says he’d never hurt her.

“He’s a beast, Belle.”

And she may not have memories, but she does have a library (and the irony isn’t lost on her in the least).

Still not looking up from her plate, she finds the will to speak. “I—I don’t think he is, Father.”

“What?”

She presses her lips together. She would rather run than fight. She would rather maintain her silence and preserve mediocrity... but there have been enough lies in this town. And she needs to fight for the truth. (Because if she doesn’t, who will?)

She clears her throat, shaking and tremulous in the face of her father’s (maybe not) unjustified dismay, and lifts her chin until her eyes meet his. “He’s not a beast.”

“You don’t know what he’s done,” her father says.

She doesn’t know anything. (And she wishes he would let her live her life— for just one moment—without reminding her of everything she’s lost.) “But I know him now. And maybe he’s changed.”

“In the two months you’ve known him?”

He doesn’t mean to be flippant, she’s sure. But the words hit her, knock her down like a sledgehammer to the leg, leave her scrambling in disbelief. The words strip her of the independence she’s fought for, tooth and nail, for nine long weeks. (And her father never notices.)

“I’ve known him for years, Belle. I don’t care if he brings you salad. You can’t make excuses for a man like that.”

“He’s sorry,” she says. He’s sorry, and he’s kind, and he tells the truth. (Monsters don’t do that. Monsters don’t offer their first names even if it is ‘Rumplestiltskin’. Monsters don’t almost-cry over hamburgers and broken teacups.)

“Is he sorry for losing you? Of course he is. You’re payment from one of his deals. You’re a grab for power. You’re—” He throws up a hand and it lands on the table with a bang and a car-crash rattle of glass and metal. “You’re his lawn ornament.”

Tears press sharply at the back of her eyes. In her blurred vision, the sauce on her plate looks too much like blood.

“He doesn’t love you, Belle. He put a spell on you.”

A spell.

Of course he doesn’t mean magic (flashes of fireballs and healed shoulders, tiny infusions of fear directly into her bloodstream). He means power, or influence, or blackmail (or even the blinders of love). There’s a sane explanation, certainly a sane explanation, but his words paralyze her nonetheless.

She can feel her bravery running away.

“Father, please…”

But her father doesn’t stop. He drains his wine in a single long swig and barrels through, with his barrel chest heaving and his barrel voice booming. (And the air is heavy.) “He took you.”

She drops her hands into her lap and crumples napkin and dress together in her fists, twisting fabric and paper until her knuckles ache.

“He imprisoned you.”

Panic rolls over her in waves, cold air on her skin (even though her hair is down), the ribbon on her wrist like a shackle, her yellow dress a twin to the hospital gown she wore for long endless days. Nausea twists her gut like she twists her dress, and it has nothing to do with the spaghetti and all to do with Father and Mister Gold. (And there is no relief when she thinks of his name, because his name has made her dinner so much less than fine.)

She can feel her mind remembering _that man_ (with bared teeth and black eyes), instead of Mister Gold (with quiet resignation and a soft, brown gaze that never presses too hard).

“He nearly killed me.”

The world slows to a spaghetti-sauce consistency. The kitchen clock ticking in sluggish half-time. Each breath and each heartbeat a hundred miles apart.

“Nearly killed you?” her voice is shaking, shaking again after days of reliability. She feels whipped and beaten down and pushed into a corner. “Surely—surely he didn’t. Maybe it was an accident? Maybe it’s a misunderstanding?”

Nearly killed the pirate, certainly, but the pirate had shot her and the pirate wore a cruel sneer and taunted Gold’s pain. She could understand. But to nearly kill her father, who is heavy and unrelenting and only wants what is best for her—

“He held me at gunpoint, Belle. He tied me up and drove me into the woods. He beat me.”

The world spins and arches its back and threatens to buck her off. She teeters on the extreme edge of reality, and she can see Mister Gold with his hands around the pirate’s neck, she can see the fireball and the cruelty, and maybe her father is right after all and there is a beast inside him. (But he is also kind and she cannot reconcile the two, cannot imagine Cobb salad and assaults at gunpoint.)

“It’s true. You can ask Doctor Whale. I still wear a neck brace when I sleep.”

Only one word surfaces. “Why?”

“Because that’s who he is.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She looks up at him. He is out of place and out of sorts in his half-a-suit. His fingers rub together and they are stained with dirt (impervious to a hundred washings) and she knows he wants to hold her hands. But she can’t reach for him because, if she does, he might never let go.

But his blue eyes are wide and honest, and his blue eyes hold pain (though not half as much as brown eyes can hold). And she knows he is telling the truth when he finally says, “Because he’s taken you away from me. Twice. And I won’t let it happen again.”

xxxx

They skip dessert and her father drives her back to the hospital.

He drops her off in the parking lot and she says goodbye without looking up from the pavement.

The pager is in her purse, with Jane Eyre and seven dollar bills and the yellow ribbon (because the tightness of it around her wrist had been about to drive her mad), and Doctor Whale meets her in the lobby. He asks if she’s okay and calls her Jane (calls her by _her name_ , because he always remembers and her father never does), and brings her to her room.

When she asks, he tells her the truth (gunpoint, kidnapping, two broken ribs and a bruised spine and a battered-up-face), and offers her a handkerchief when she begins to cry.

She changes out of her yellow dress and into jeans and a sweatshirt.

She finds herself on Leroy’s porch at ten o’clock at night, and they watch late-night talk shows over a glass of rum until night becomes morning. They don’t talk, but his silence and his perpetual scowl settle her nerves. He flicks channels, and she nearly falls asleep on his couch, and she knows she’ll be okay.

She’ll be ‘fine’.

(Eventually.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asjklfjaslk; everybody, ChippedCupofChai made me a lovely lovely graphic for Forget Me Not! It's honestly beautiful and I'm so thrilled. Hope you enjoy! If you like it, please send her a message on tumblr. Even if you don't have a tumblr, you can send her an anonymous message by clicking the 'message' button on her blog. Hope you all like it as much as I do!
> 
> http://chippedcupofchai.tumblr.com/post/46486113339/once-upon-a-time-fanfic-recommendation-forget-me

She sits in her room with the door open (like she has for days), and watches the nurses pass by. They're always in a hurry, always moving, with clipboards or syringes or plastic bottles of pills. Always busy, carried down the hall in a rapid current, while she sits (landlocked) on the shore of a little island and watches everything else flow past.

It seems like she's been here forever.

Sometimes she has difficulty remembering that the world turns on without her.

As she flounders in a mire of emotions and jumbled up thoughts, people live. Babies are born and children break bones, people come in with ruptured appendixes and gaping wounds (and she overheard a man claim that a giant caused it, but surely the blood loss had gone to his head). Without her knowledge or her presence, people get married and divorced, watch movies, go bowling, work and play (and eat Cobb salad in libraries when things start looking bright for the first time in weeks). While she sits cross-legged on a hospital bed, life happens.

It's reassuring. But it's also lonely.

And so, relief outweighs annoyance (if only just) when a sudden burst of red, like an emergency flare, interrupts the flow of uniform white. Emma (dark jeans and tall boots, clad in red leather jacket, a startling and welcome change from whites and greys and muted shades of blue) pokes her head just inside the open door, rapping her knuckles awkwardly on the wall to announce her presence.

Jane offers a smile and a small, awkward wave, and wishes she could do better.

"Belle—Jane, I mean, hi," Emma says, and her words are as stiff as Jane's wave. "Do you mind… if I come in?"

She shrugs, but the smile stays. "Door's open."

Emma visibly relaxes. Starting at her shoulders and working its way down to the rest of her, the tension drains from her body, and she steps into the room with a languid stride and loosely-swinging arms. She carries a plastic shopping bag, which hits against her thighs with a dull 'clunk' and crinkle of plastic. Her smile is fixed (not quite easy but not quite fake) and she looks around the room with a critical eye. (She's probably just sizing up the new photographs Jane has stuck to the wall, but it looks like she's sweeping the perimeter for snipers.)

"I love what you've done with the place," she says after a long moment. Her tone is drier than hospital food, and she raises a single shaped eyebrow. Her stance, however, moves from awkward to casual—and Jane has spent enough time with her to pick up the sincerity hidden behind a friendly joke.

"Thank you. Sticky tack is a marvellous thing."

Last week, Mary Margaret brought in a stack of back issue  _National Geographic_  magazines. Now half of the featured shots are stuck to the walls. Panama. Canada. Paris. Egypt. Iceland. Australia. Wisconsin. Anywhere and everywhere, and with the help of scissors and some sticky tack, Belle soon set to plastering the drab hospital room with dozens of glossy page-sized photographs. (Plastering the drab hospital room with windows to the outside world, mountains and forests and rivers, serving as a catalogue of adventures she doesn't want—but can't help admire.)

Jane watches Emma, who is kind enough to come (without being asked) and kind enough to leave (if asked), and decides her solitude can stand to be broken. "Do you… want to sit down?"

Emma tears her eyes away from a photo of a redwood forest, and shifts the shopping bag in her hand. "Thanks." She takes a seat on the plastic chair beside the hospital bed, and hoists the bag onto her lap. She reaches her arm inside and pulls out a thermos. (History suggests iced tea or bourbon as the answer to the mystery, but Jane is fairly certain thermoses are quite capable of holding liquids outside the realm of her personal experience.)

Thankfully, Emma doesn't prolong the suspense. "I brought hot chocolate, if you're thirsty."

"I'd love some." Especially the way Emma makes it. (She'd had the drink several times at Granny's, but the true love affair had begun two weeks ago when Henry snuck up behind her at the counter-slash-bar and sprinkled cinnamon on top.)

Emma frowns and twists the lid, peering inside. "Well, I hope it's still hot chocolate. It might be luke-warm chocolate by now. You wouldn't believe what I put up with to get it here." Emma pulls a mug (a real mug, not a plastic cup) from the bag and dumps the chocolate unceremoniously into it. "First, this was the last of the mix. I had to beat Henry off with a stick to get at it. Then I had to wash a thermos, because David took the last of them to work and forgot to do the dishes." She tops the chocolate with a dash of cinnamon from a small plastic baggie, and then hands it to Jane. "Then my car wouldn't start, because I left the headlights on. So I took the squad car."

Jane curls her hands around the warming porcelain. (The chocolate is, mercifully, still quite warm.)

"Then I spent the last fifteen minutes arguing with Doctor Whale about how you didn't want to see anyone." Emma sprinkles cinnamon into her thermos and swirls it like a fine wine. "He can be annoyingly persistent."

Jane takes a tentative sip and smiles. "He'd probably say the same about you."

She takes a long swig (tossing it back as easily as Leroy and a shot of bourbon), licks her lips, and nods. "And a good thing, too, or you'd be drinking tea and I'd be doing dishes."

Jane shrugs. "Tea's not bad."

Emma frowns into her thermos. "Neither are dishes, but that's not exactly how I want to spend my night."

Instead, Emma chooses to spend it with her, with Jane (with a woman who hides herself in a hospital instead of responding to dinner invitations and Ruby's incessant texting). She chooses to spend her night with a woman who curls herself up in a blanket (instead of a dress and the sound of friendly laughter)and surrounds herself with photographs of animals and mountains (instead of the sights and sounds and smells of the real world).

(A woman who is hiding and afraid and lost.)

Jane takes another sip and stares into her mug (and she's glad the porcelain is forest green instead of white and blue, because her head is already pounding). Tiny particles of cinnamon drift around the surface of the chocolate, and as she watches their hypnotic journey, she finds her voice.

"I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble," she says.

Emma takes a sip and stares at her over the rim of her thermos. "Don't worry about it," she says. "It's not a big deal."

But it's too late not to be worried about it, because she  _is_  worried about it, because Emma has a family and a life and she could be doing dishes or watching tv but she's  _here_  instead. (And she is worried, because she can feel the panic whirling like the tendrils of a spinning galaxy, curling like seaweed around her ankles and dragging her down into the darkness, choking her like a poisoned apple lodged in her chest). Because she was getting so much better and now she's a wreck.

The silence taunts her and it's heavy and it drives her mad like the incessant tick of a clock. She speaks to drown out the sound of nothing.

"You really didn't have to do this, you know. I mean—I'm fine—here, by myself." Her mouth moves, but her head doesn't seem to agree, and she ends up nodding and shaking her head and pursing her lips in jumble of movement she can neither define nor control. "I don't mind. Nothing's wrong. I'm not hurt. I just… need some space."

"Jane—"

She holds up her hand to cut Emma off. (She wishes her eyes weren't swimming with tears.) "I'm  _fine_."

It's not quite the truth. But it's not a lie.

She is less fine than she was four days ago, before her father brushed away her progress with a wave of his hand (like she brushes away cobwebs from the long-forgotten corners of the library), but she is coping.

At least she's not afraid. She's more  _angry_  than anything, more frustrated or confused or maybe numb. (And maybe she's okay with that because numbness is easier than painful itchy healing.) She's tired of sympathy and pity and not-answers and not-truths and dealing with people who expect her to trust them when they sneak around with bags of secrets slung over their shoulders. But she is not crying (much) and she is not shaking (anymore) and it's her choice to stay here (alone) if she wants.

"Do you want me to go?" Emma asks.

Jane stares into her mug. She shrugs.

"Hey, I get it," Emma says. She gives a one-shouldered shrug and rustles through the plastic bag to find the lid to her thermos. "Sometimes people do better on their own." A hollow metal echo of the lid being screwed on, another rustle of the bag, the scrape of the chair against the tile. She stands, but doesn't walk away, and her hand momentarily rests on the edge of the mattress like she wants to say something but can't quite find the words. "Just—" The plastic bag crackles, white noise and radio static, as she shifts uncomfortably. "— make sure this is one of those cases."

Jane nods. She lifts her mug to her lips and takes a sip.

"I'll see you soon," Emma says.

Emma's boots pound their way across the floor, and the flicker of red leather in the corner of her vision fades away into whites and blues and greys and the lonely square photos of far off places. (And maybe this isn't one of those cases.)

She wants solitude. (But not isolation.)

She wants to be left alone. (She doesn't want to  _be_  alone.)

Maybe she doesn't know what she wants (but she has to push forward or she'll never find out.)

"Emma, wait?"

The footsteps stop.

Jane rubs her thumbs against the porcelain and bites her lip and looks up. "Do you—want to go for a walk?"

"On one condition," Emma says.

Jane looks up. "What's that?"

Emma glances between Jane and the plastic bag, between the mug and the door. "We go for refills at Granny's after."

Jane swallows the remainder of her hot chocolate from her mug and sets it on the bedside table. She swings her legs over the side of her bed and plants bare feet on the ground. "Deal," she says. She smoothes creases out of her dark jeans and fights a smile. "But you're buying."

xxxx

She loves walking through the gardens at night, because the night is quiet and free from prying eyes. Because the air is cold and she can see her breath, because the cold is sharply  _real_ and the dark is sharply  _still_  (and the hospital is always white-washed and too brightly lit). And the dark feels honest.

In the dark, she can almost forget that her world consists of a suitcase and a stack of books. The sun goes down and people forget their troubles (and forget their hum-drum lives and forget  _themselves)_  and until the sun comes back up, she's not alone. She can breathe fresh air and taste freedom as strongly as anyone else in this town.

It swallows secrets. It hides fear. It makes her brave.

And she needs it tonight. She needs the darkness and the quiet and the secrets because her hard-won equilibrium has been overthrown, and everything she thought was true is in flux, and everyone she thought was with her is against her. She needs the darkness because questions pound at her mind with the insufferable persistence of a leaking tap. (Because the questions will drive her mad. They'll lock her up again. They'll ruin her life before it's even begun.)

But with Emma at her side, with a long woollen coat wrapped around her (and a scarf over her neck, and the collar popped up, and her hair down over her shoulders and earmuffs to ward off the chill), maybe she can find the answers she needs. Maybe she can save herself and salvage what she can, even if the universe is pitted against her.

Maybe she can't remember, but maybe she can  _know_.

"Can I ask you something?" she asks, tucking her gloved hands under her arms.

"Yeah, sure."

"You're the Sherriff, right?"

Emma pats her belt, which is hidden by the black shirt that sticks out from beneath her leather jacket. "Last time I checked."

"Did you hear anything about Mister Gold…" She can't help a glance over her shoulder, as if he might be lurking in the shadows of skeletal trees, as if he might tilt his head and lean on his cane and hear every word. (Of course he isn't there. Of course there's nothing in the gardens but flowers and bushes and white-silver moonlight.)

"About Mister Gold?" Emma says. "I hear lots of things." It's a subtle prompt to continue. A helpful nudge, curious but nonthreatening.

Jane rubs her fingers against the fleecy inside of her mittens. She curls her hands into fists and holds her arms a little tighter around herself. "Did Mister Gold assault my father?"

Emma blows out a long breath, streaming a foggy cloud into the starlit sky. "Yeah," she says after a moment, "he did."

"So it's true, then."

"Yeah."

"Did you see it?"

"Yeah." Emma shrugs. Jane can't see her face (she doesn't want to look at her face, she only wants to stare at the ground and fix her eyes on the gravel path stretching out in front of them) but her voice sounds almost apologetic. "It wasn't pretty. And it probably would have been a lot worse I hadn't shown up."

It's strange, how hope can be extinguished with so few words. (Like dirt thrown on a fire, choking it of oxygen.)

It's strange, how she's wanted the truth for so long, and now forgetfulness seems comforting. (Like a blanket and a whitewashed room.)

It's strange, how the questions don't want to go away. (Like the nagging taste of sandwiches and the sound of a cane on a tiled floor.)

"Do you know why he did it?" Jane asks. It's the only option. Now that she's begun, the questions pile up at the back of her throat (like water pushing against a dam, clambering and swirling). She doesn't think she can stop them.

"Your dad stole from him."

"What did he steal?"

"A bunch of stuff. And that teacup."

"The one I broke?" ( _Her talisman,_ whatever that means _.)_

"Yeah."

It's a small comfort, at least. The florist steals the teacup and gets beaten half to death. She smashes it against a concrete wall, and Gold  _apologizes_  to her.

They walk for a moment in silence. Their feet crunch on gravel, and the wind tries desperately to penetrate the knit of her sweater and swish around her neck.

"There was something else though," Emma finally says, "besides the cup." Jane doesn't answer (can't answer, because the questions are all scrambling to escape at once and she can't catch hold of any of them). But Emma takes her silence as permission. "He said something about 'her'? About Moe hurting 'her'? And that she was gone and never coming back?"

"Who?" Jane asks.

"Beats me," Emma says. "But I'd guess he was talking about you. From what I've heard, he thought you were dead."

"And he thought  _my father_  killed me?"

Emma shrugs, and Jane is staring at the gravel but she knows Emma shrugs because her leather jacket creaks. "All I can say is that you weren't around when this all went down, and Gold sure seemed surprised to see you."

"The asylum," she says. It's the only other thing she remembers (and only just, only in glimpses of drug-addled nightmares, memories hidden in flashes of bleached memories and the scent of antiseptic).

"I guess so." Emma seems at a loss, voice riddled with almost-skepticism the heaviest kind of resignation. "I don't really know. It's kind of a long story."

"So is that why you don't like… him? Moe?" It seems strange to call him 'my father' in front of Emma, when Emma frowns or tenses or huffs a sigh every time the florist's name is mentioned. (Or when Jane wants nothing but to hide in the library every Wednesday and wonder why she dislikes  _her father_  more than the man who assaulted him with a cane.)

"No. I don't like Moe because he's thrilled that you have amnesia."

Jane stops. "He is?"

Emma's pace slows, and she turns around to look Jane in the eye, brow creased. "You can't tell? He practically danced a jig when I phoned to tell him what happened."

"Why would he—?" And then she understands. Dots connect in her mind like those puzzles in the back of children's colouring books and everything makes sense. "Mister Gold. He's happy because I'm not dating Mister Gold."

"Truthfully, I'm sure he's not the only one… but most people wouldn't want your memory wiped because of it." Emma shrugs. Her jacket creaks again, and she buries her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "And I have a serious bone to pick with him. Call me old fashioned, but I think a girl should be able to able to date who she wants without fear of getting kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?"

"You know, it's—" Emma looks to the sky, as if trying to search the heavens for an appropriate response. "What I mean is that—"

"It's a long story?" Jane offers.

Emma smiles in relief. "Yeah. It really, really is." She pushes her hair from her face and sighs. "But the short version," she says, tucking her hands in the back pocket of her jeans, "is that Storybrooke is weird. And the longer you stay, the crazier it gets, so you might as well get used to things now." She gives Jane a smile and an apologetic sort of half-shrug, and starts walking along the path, heading towards the fork that leads back to the car.

Jane follows close behind.

(The town is crazy.)

The car is in sight, waiting in the moonlight like a black and white ghost, before Jane musters up the strength to ask a final question.

(The town is  _weird_.)

"Emma?"

(People are kidnapped and a woman named  _Cora_ has everyone running scared, and a man with a wound said something about a giant, and her shoulder was healed… and maybe she won't need to be locked up ever again.)

"Can I ask you a question?"

(And maybe she's not crazy after all.)

"Sure, but can you ask on the go? Granny's is about to close."

She tries to wait until they reach the car—she really does—but the questions are building up behind her tongue, and the wind rushes around her head, and her hands shake from cold and fear and excitement and—"Emma?"

Emma turns, keys in hand. "Yeah?"

"Do you believe in magic?"

To her credit, Emma doesn't drop the keys. She doesn't laugh. She does nothing but stare at Jane with her eyebrows slightly raised and her lips curling into an almost-smile, as if remembering something funny and unbelievable and sad all at once. "If you'd asked me a year ago I'd have said no," she says.

"I'm not asking you a year ago," says Jane. "What changed your mind?"

"Magic," she says, and her voice is so quiet it nearly gets swept away by the wind.

Jane's unravels her scarf and the cold hits her neck, but she doesn't care because she can barely breathe. "Are you saying—?"

"Yeah."

"—Magic is real?"

"Oh yeah."

"So I actually saw… what I saw."

"Yeah."

"And that means Mister Gold can—"

The only thing Emma can say is, "Yeah."

And the only thing Jane can say is, "Wow."

"Well, now you know." Emma flips the keys around in her hand, punctuating the air with clinking metal. She blows out a long breath. "Sorry it took so long to tell you."

"But you did tell me," she says. "Thanks."

They walk to the car in silence, and Emma unlocks the doors. "Hey, you okay?"

It's a lot to digest (but she isn't crazy). She has some thinking to do and a phone call to make (but she has time for all that, and now she has answers, and it's a start).

Jane tucks her chin into her scarf and nods.

"So are we still getting hot chocolate?"

She climbs into the passenger's seat and says, with the tiniest hint of a smile (and a large dose of irony), "Yeah."

 


	9. Chapter 9

She watches Mister Gold from the window, and wonders if he notices. The day is foggy and bleak—warming air and cold damp concrete, everything a disinterested grey—and from this distance he’s little more than a murky black shape.

He’s lit by a bevy of lamps positioned haphazardly all over his shop (though she wonders if it’s really as haphazard as she thinks, or if maybe he has a reason behind everything he does, if maybe it’s a magic spell or a secret pattern or simply the best use of shelf space), and he must be busy with something because he’s ferried at least ten or fifteen items into the back of his shop since she started watching.

She feels a bit uneasy, staring at him. Observing him, knowing he could look up at any moment and see her. But she _needs_ to do this (her courage is still only a fledgling thing, still only taking its first steps on wobbly legs). She needs to hear the truth from his lips (soaked in a gentle Scottish accent and the weariness of grief) and she needs to hear his reasons (even if his reasons are excuses) and she needs to hear his side of the story (even if it leaves her hopeless and endlessly disappointed).

She needs to phone him because the prospect frightens her.

(And she doesn’t want to be frightened any longer.)

With steady determination, she pulls her cellphone from her pocket. (She’s wearing a light grey skirt, and a white cardigan over a blue blouse—a lovely robin’s-egg colour that reminds her of the sky and the outdoors and freedom). She flips her phone open and jams her thumb into the ‘dial’ button before she has time to change her mind.

It rings.

It rings _forever_.

It rings _forever_ , and as she watches, a slim black shape emerges from the back of the shop, (all straight suit-lines and grace, despite his limp).  The shape lifts something small from the counter to its ear, and a voice at the other end of the phone says, “Hello?”

For a moment, she forgets how to speak. She stares at the window, and he doesn’t seem to see her because the shape’s head is tilted down towards the floor like it’s listening very hard, and she tucks her free hand up inside the sleeve of her white cardigan. She breathes.

“Hello?” the voice says again.

And she says, “Hi.”

There’s a pause.

And then she says, “It’s me.”

“Yes,” Mister Gold’s voice says.  “I know.”

“How?” (Maybe it’s magic, maybe he has a spell on her or on his shop, or maybe he’s watching her and she just can’t see because the fog makes everything so indistinct—)

“You’re the only one who has this number.”

 “Oh.”  Heat creeps up her neck and flushes her cheeks. She smiles and shakes her head at her runaway thoughts (as if all her mind needs is a good scolding to settle down).

In the pause that follows, he moves closer to the window, and she can see he has his free hand pressed against his open ear, to block out all noises but the telephone. His cane must be hanging on the counter, or in the back of his shop, and his limp is worse than usual. (She wonders if it’s still painful for him to walk, or merely something healed-but-never-fixed, like a badly set bone or a knee replacement.) He draws up close to the glass, until she can almost see the greyness of his hair against the blackness of his suit (the murkiest flash of red in his tie).

She waves.

Awkwardly, as if unsure how to respond, he waves back.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

She wants to say yes (to reassure him, because he sounds so worried and she imagines his jaw is tight and his forehead creased, and she’s _fine_ ), but it would be a lie. Everything is not alright, in fact. Everything is not alright because her father was beaten half to death with a cane (even if he did steal a teacup), and someone kidnapped her (and she doesn’t even remember), and she still lives in a hospital room (because she’s afraid of being alone).

But she doesn’t want to say no, either.

And so she shrugs, and smiles a short little smile as if she’s talking to Rub, and says, “Things are getting better.” And at least that’s the truth, if only a part of it.

“Good,” he says, and there’s a brightness to his tone that defies the inclement weather. “That’s excellent. I’m… very happy for you, Jane.”

She doesn’t doubt it. He sounds happy. He probably looks happy (though his eyes probably stay sad, and maybe it’s better that she can’t see them from here). And maybe she could be happy too, except that she remembers the reason for her call.

She remembers the hollowness in her father’s eyes, the hatred lighting them up like kerosene—and the warmth in her stomach turns hollow, like nausea or the moment of weightlessness before falling down the stairs. Her smile turns to a frown and she bites her lip and looks away from the window.

“If I ask you something,” she says, after a long moment of silence (borne with admirable patience by the man on the other side of the street), “will you tell me the truth? Even if you don’t like it?”

“Yes,” he says, and it surprises her because there is almost no hesitation in his voice. “Haven’t I always?”

“Yes,” she says back. “That’s why I’m calling you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you promise?” she asks. “Before I ask you, you need to promise.” He shouldn’t have to. He hasn’t lied to her. He hasn’t hidden things from her. He told her he loved her from the first day they met, he spoke of magic like a madman and bared his soul and apologized and told her she was brave. But she needs the assurance, because she isn’t brave—not yet, (and maybe he did tell one lie to her, after all).

“I promise,” he says. His voice trembles, but the silhouette in the shop window stands tall.

“Did you harm my father?”

A moment’s pause. Steady breathing on the other side of the phone. And then, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“He stole from me.”

“Do you often assault people who steal from you?”

“People don’t often steal from me.”

“Why did he do it?” she asks.

“He owed me a debt.” The figure in the window (the distant, hazy Mister Gold) rubs its face and sets its hand on something like a globe. “He was late in his payment. In return, I took his van and his means of paying me back.”

“Is that everything?”

“No.”

“I want to know,” she says.

And so he tells her.

He speaks slowly, cautiously, as if every word hurts and he has to drag the story out through clenched teeth. As if he totters on the edge of self-control, and the only way he can make it through is by sheer force of will. (As if it’s a reluctant gift to her, and he holds it out with open hands, even as it burns his palms.)  Straight forward and direct and worlds apart from the tapestry of falsehoods she’s grown accustomed to.

She’s not sure if he’s making up for lost time, or trying to pay some sort of cosmic debt, or if he hopes it will make her remember(or if he just feels she deserves it), but she doesn’t doubt his honesty.

He tells her how the mayor lied to him. How Belle left and never came back, and the mayor said _her father_ had driven her to suicide (when in reality there were endless years of nothingness, of blank captivity and concrete and a bone-deep chill). How Mister Gold had blamed himself—and though he doesn’t tell her this directly, she can hear it in his voice and the careful phrasing of his words.  (When he says he blamed her father, when he says ‘it was his fault’, it sounds like he’s saying ‘it was my fault’.) She learns how he took her father to the cabin, and tied him up, and struck him.

She learns of his pain, and his anger, and the panic he felt when the cup was gone, because it is all he has of her (all he _had_ of her, and the past tense is her fault though he never accuses her). And she learns of the mystery woman, of the unknown and elusive ‘her’ in Emma’s story. He missed her (misses her) and he loved her (loves her).

(And he doesn’t say that out loud either, but his voice sounds like the sadness lurking behind his brown eyes.)

When his story ends, they stand in silence for a long while. Cool air bleeds through the glass, chilling her arm even through her cardigan.

She feels vulnerable beside the window, exposed and open (like standing beside the town line, instead of the warmth of her library). She feels too close, even though there’s a street between her and his shop, and too visible, though she’s likely distorted into a blurry human-esque shape by the rain running down the window.

He’s sorry.

But even sorry can’t stop her fear.

Even the truth doesn’t mask the sound of muffled thumps pounding in her ears (heartbeats that sound like a cane against flesh and bone), or dispel the sounds of screaming, or erase the memory of cruelty scrawled across his face (eyes black and teeth bared and she’s seen that look before, his cane pressed across the windpipe of the fallen pirate). Even kindness can’t keep her hands from trembling, or quell the flashbacks when they rise up like bubbling pitch and roll over her with sticky, inescapable force.

And maybe his eyes are just as sad as hers, if she could see them, and maybe he’s fighting tears, and maybe he’s sorry… but intentions don’t mean much when her father wears a neck brace and struggles to pay off medical bills.

Very quietly, very deliberately, she takes a step back from the window. (She’s not running away. It’s a tactical retreat.)

“I have to go,” she says.  

“Of course,” he says. Resigned. Voice too-calm and too-still, like he expects it. (And maybe he does, because maybe leaving is all that ever happens between them.)

“Thank you for telling me,” she says.

“Jane, I’m sorry—” But she can’t stand to hear it another time (her collection of apologies is a burden, a regret-heavy suitcase she carries with her everywhere, and she doesn’t want to be the cause of another heartbreak), and so she pulls the phone away from her ear and snaps it shut with an audible ‘clack’.

The hazy-Gold-silhouette lowers its phone and turns away from the window in silence. Without a single glance back at her, it limp-steps around the counter and into the back of its shop. She still has more questions—but for now they cower in the corner of her mind, along with the rest of her thoughts.

She spends the rest of the afternoon in a corner in a beanbag chair, clutching tight to a battered copy of Jane Eyre and not reading it.

 

xxxx

 

It takes two days for her bravery to slink back. But when it does, and the questions return like swarms of sand fleas over the surface of her mind, she dials his number.

 “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Jane,” he says. He speaks with a mix of reverence and surprise (and it sounds so much better than resignation, so much less painful than the hurt of an abruptly ended telephone call). “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

She’s not sure if he means ‘so soon’ or ‘ever’.

“How can I help you?” he asks. (It’s a formal question. Business-arrangement speech, and he must be comfortable using it because it flows from his mouth without meaning or pain.)

 “I… have another question.”

 “I’ll answer as best I can,” he says.

She pauses. Draws a breath. She doesn’t think he’s in his shop, but she stands beside the window anyway. Just beside the wall, just out of sight. Theoretically close to him and close to the outside world, but tucked away tightly behind locked doors and the library’s as-of-yet unmoved ‘closed’ sign.

“Emma said my father kidnapped me?”

She asks it as a question because it sounds absurd, even in her head. Her father kidnap her? Her father tie her up and drag her away? He’s insensitive and heavy and foolish, perhaps, biased against a man he barely knows—but abduction? 

(Then again, he did steal. Perhaps the distance between crimes is shorter than she thinks.)

She can’t see Mister Gold, but the silence makes her think that his hand must be white-knuckled on his cane and his teeth must be clenched.

“He did.” His words sound torn to bloody ribbons by the tension in his voice. 

“He did,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She puts her hand on the table, palm down, to steady herself.

She can hear the sound of footsteps and vehicles over the phone. He must be walking through town somewhere, along the sidewalk with the phone to his ear. Silent and waiting for her to speak.

“Why?” she finally asks.

Maybe there’s a good reason (for kidnapping). Maybe her father can be excused (for abduction). Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding (like assault).

Or—and she’s been preparing herself for this possibility as much as any other— maybe Wednesday night dinners are terrible because her father is terrible. And she’s wary and uncomfortable but maybe she should be afraid of him. Maybe she’s been afraid of the wrong man the entire time. (Maybe the real monster isn’t the man with the sneer and the cane, but the man who feeds spaghetti to a woman he once abducted and pretends nothing ever happened.)

“Your father,” Gold says slowly, after a long moment of chewing on the words, “wanted to make you forget me.” (He thinks it’s his fault. Just like he thinks the gunshot and lost memories are his fault. His voice sounds like a thousand apologies and a thousand regrets.) “You left my house one morning,” he says, “and you didn't come back.”

She rubs her thumb against the table. Her skin squeaks against the polished wood, sliding across in little sticky jumps and skips.

“And what happened?” she asks.

“We found you.”

“And he still blames you for taking me away.” (This time it’s not a question at all.)

“I imagine he does.” There’s an edge to his voice, a gravelly undertone that makes her think of bared teeth and raised hackles.

She bites her bottom lip and scratches at a dent in the table. “He says you imprisoned me.”

A long silence. More cars and footsteps and the sound of a steady wind hissing across the phone.

“It was a long time ago,” he says, finally. “We made a deal and you agreed to stay with me. You kept your word. It wasn’t personal.”

“And then it was.”

“And then it was,” he agrees. “So I let you go.”

Because he loved her (loves her). Because he respected her (respects her). Because “her own good” is her own choice (and he gave her a key, not a lock).

“I _am_ sorry.”

“I know,” she says.

Over the phone, the sound of a closing door shuts out the sounds of the street. “Jane,” he says, “I’m afraid I have a meeting to attend.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Would you like me…” He hesitates for a brief moment, as if trying to gauge interest by the breadth and depth of her silence. “…would you like me to call you back?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. She can hear the tiny sigh—the resigned exhale through his nose—and it twists in her stomach like a knife. She doesn’t mean to stomp his hopes, but (like a child on a sandcastle) it seems she just can’t help herself. And he’s so quick to retreat, like he’d leave and never return, if she only asked. (He leaves like it’s so easy to do.)

“Of course,” he says. He breathes in and she can tell he’s going to say goodbye.

“Wait.” There is silence on the other end of the phone—but no dial tone. He’s listening. She stares through the window at the ‘closed’ sign hanging on his darkened shop.  “Are you free tomorrow morning?”

“I can be.”

“I’ll call you at eight.”

She thinks, for a brief moment, she can hear his smile through the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR READING AND REVIEWING. I really appreciate it, as always. Reviews always brighten my day. 
> 
> A big thanks, as always, to Anti-Kryptonite, and thanks to Chippedcupofchai as well, for giving me some initial feedback and helping me through some of my drama. Much obliged, darling!


	10. Chapter 10

She’s tired of spending every waking moment in the library (even if it is soothing and even if it is _hers_ ), so she walks to the pier when the light is still grey to watch the sun rise over the ocean. Except for the sound of birds and the muffled footsteps of early morning joggers, she steals through the morning air in silence, alone with the steady drumbeat of her thoughts. The world smells of salt and an impending storm. Knots of clouds hover dark and distant over the horizon, painted in orange and red.

The wind blows cold with winter’s slow retreat, but it whistles like freedom around her head and tangles playfully in her hair (and it could be midwinter for all she cares, because, in this moment, she never wants to go inside again).

And so she sits on a bench despite the threatening storm, wrapped in a jacket against the backdrop of glistening ocean waves, and waits.

When the clock tower clangs eight (gigantic pealing _Belles_ like musical thunder), she dials Mister Gold.

(It’s easier than it was yesterday.)

He picks up on the first ring.

 “Jane,” he says.

“Good morning,” she says. She can hear the wind crackling through the phone, and she flips the collar of her jacket up so it covers the bottom of her face. She struggles for words (because so often her world is only silence), and bites her lip long enough to grasp at the edges of conversation. “How… was your meeting?”

“Uneventful.” Mister Gold seems at a similar loss, but he’s quicker to recover. A brief second later, to combat the lull of silence between them, he adds, “But I could tell you about it if you want.”

She shakes her head (and remembers with a tiny smile that he can’t see her). “No. That’s okay.”

“And your day?”

It’s small talk. It’s comforting and normal and completely inane, (and if they don’t redirect the conversation they’ll lose all control and start discussing the weather or latest news from sports), and in some ways it feels completely wrong.

And completely right.

Right to hear his voice. Right to talk to him without the perpetual awareness of violence. Right to talk to him without her father’s accusations hanging over her shoulders (because a man who kidnapped her lost the privilege to tell her what to do and what to think). Right to talk to him like they’re both ordinary human beings. And maybe it’s strange to be discussing uneventful days with Mister Gold, but who’s going to stop them?

“My day was fine,” she says.

“Good.”

“But that’s not what I called to talk about.”

A pause. (She can imagine the twitch of his lips.) “I expect not,” he says.

“I still have questions.”

“Of course.” (She can almost see the momentary flash of amusement in his eyes. Picture the tilt of his head like an acquiescence.) “What do you want to know?”

“I—” She’s had hours to prepare, but her breath catches and her lips fail to form the words, and for a moment she sits (inhaling in the salty, stormy air, like she can so easily replace fear with oxygen) and tries to think of the best way to phrase her question. But she’s going to ask him about something that shouldn’t exist (something crazy). And there is no best way. So she clears her throat and says, “I want to know about magic.”

“What about it?”

Three words, and the edges of the world seem to brighten. A weight off her back, (a lungful of fresh ocean air and maybe it _can_ drive away fear), because she doesn’t have to explain herself. She doesn’t have to fight for her right to know. No games, no pretending, no playing dumb. She saw magic (and she isn’t crazy). Magic is real (and Mister Gold or Rumple or Rumplestiltskin knows all about it).

Magic exists (and the image that haunts her dreams and her waking moments of terror—the closed doors of an asylum and the pinch of a needle beneath her skin—evaporates into the air around her and flies away on the wind).

“It’s real, then.” Not a question anymore, though it has haunted her for so many days.

“Yes.”

“And you… have it?”

“I can use magic, yes.”

“Can anyone else?”

“Regina. Cora.” (And that’s why everyone’s so terrified of her, perhaps. Why she’s so dangerous.) “Mother Superior and several of the nuns, to smaller degrees. And, as it happens, Miss Swan.”

Jane blinks. “Emma?”

“She’s something of a novice, but yes—Miss Swan possesses considerable potential.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Jane says.

“No,” Gold says. “I don’t believe she would have. I don’t think she quite believes it herself.”

“How do you get magic?”

“Miss Swan appears to have been born with it. Cora and Regina learned it.”

“And you?”

He pauses. For a long time—longer than she expects. She listens to the rush of the waves and the sound of his breathing on the other end of the phone, and waits.

 Finally, he says, “I acquired it in a deal. A long time ago.”

“Did you get a good price?” she asks.

“Not particularly.”

“Was it worth it?”

He only says, “Next question.”

She doesn’t have time to dwell on his reluctance for more than a moment, or pick apart the grains of tragedy and remorse in his voice, because a barrage of questions sweep over her curiosity and she finds herself helpless to stop them.

Is he powerful? _Yes_.

Do other people in Storybrooke know about it? _Yes_.

Is magic dangerous? _Yes_.

Is that why they’re afraid of him? _Partly_.

Did Belle know about magic? _Yes._

What did Belle think about it? _Next question_.  (And the ache of his words sinks down into the pit of her stomach.)

He tells her that magic can’t bring back the dead, can’t make someone love you. He tells her magic is power. He tells her magic always comes with a price. He tells her of deals and costs and potions, of protection wards and healing (and apologizes when she confides that the fireball still gives her nightmares). He tells her all she wants to know.

Finally, when her mouth is dry and her fingers are numb from holding the phone to his ear, she wraps herself in bravery (like a golden scarf) and asks him one last question.

“Can you show me?”

“Magic?” (And she guesses that Belle must not have liked it, because his reaction sounds surprised and suspicious and worried all at once.)

“Yes. Can you show me magic?” She speaks slowly, clearly, because she wants him to understand (and because the wind is getting colder and she has to fight off a shiver). 

“If that’s what you want.”

She’s considered the question long enough (since hot chocolate with Emma and the blazing relief of her own sanity) to have the answer ready when he asks. “It is.”

“Then I will,” he says. “But not today.”

She’s waited this long for answers; she can wait a little longer for proof.

So she says, “Thank you.” The list of things to thank him for is almost as long as the list of reasons she should fear him. (And it’s growing every day, with each new phone call and each answer checked off her list.) “For everything.”

He gives a mirthless chuckle that crackles over the phone (or maybe that’s just the lightning drawing closer, flashing interference as the clouds roll steadily onward). “You might want to rethink your answer, my dear. ‘Everything’ is a fairly broad category.”

“For being patient, then.”

“Of course.”

Over the ocean, sky and water alike churning green and blue-grey, the clouds flicker with electricity.

“There’s a storm coming,” she says.  As if to support her claims, a low rumble of thunder shudders through the air. “I should get back.”

“By all means,” he says. “But… may I offer a suggestion before you go?”

“Please do.”

“A mobile phone’s greatest asset,” he says, “is its mobility.”  He sounds nervous, wrapped up in tense anticipation (and not-quite-hope). His hands, no doubt, wringing the life out of his cane, or tapping on the back of the telephone—or perhaps even oddly still (because she’s noticed he can be still sometimes, too, like movement would undermine his earnest plea).  “It remarkably allows one to walk and talk at the same time.”

A few old leaves, left-over from the winter and liberated from the melted snow, skitter along the boardwalk in front of her.

Very quietly, (and she can hear the uncertainty in his voice), he says, “Don’t hang up yet. Please.”

Her hands shake (from the storm, or the cold, or her own inhibitions, or because _she wants to say yes_ , she isn’t sure). “Okay.” He breathes out and laughs all at once, a tiny _huff_ of air barely audible over the roar of the wind. “But if it starts raining, I’m closing the phone and running.”

 “Deal,” he says. And then, “How are things going with the library?”

She smiles and stands from the bench. The first drops of rain hit her face. She tugs her collar a little higher, and holds the phone a little closer, and says, “Great.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

For the first time she can remember (and perhaps not the last, perhaps this is the start of something new and comfortable and familiar), Mister Gold walks her home.

 

xxxx

 

The storm lasts most of the morning.

The storms that come after, (strung behind like pearls on a great thundering necklace), last all day.

By lunch, murky puddles flow like rivers down sidewalks and into sewer grates. By dinner, the weather reports warn of high winds and flash floods. By the time she walks back to the hospital, collar pulled tight against her neck, she sloshes through two inches of water and half of Storybrooke is without electricity.

When hospital visiting hours are over and the tiny gift-shop closes, she finds herself in the tv lounge in socks and a house coat, staring wide-eyed into the heart of the storm and listening to rain pound the window like an angry lover. She dozes in the armchair, slipping in and out of a fitful sleep that breaks apart at the first thunderclap. (And when she turns on the television to drive away her fear, it answers only with static.)

And so she sits in darkness, in the blacked out television room surrounded by dark glass, watching lightning illuminate the swirling clouds (and the skeletal trees outside, and the swinging electrical wires, and the rushing water, and the streaks of rain on the window). She rubs her hands together and curls herself up in her housecoat and hums to herself and paces the floor—she does everything she can to keep her heart from bursting out of her chest—and then she calls Mister Gold.

It rings.

It rings and rings and the thunder shakes the glass and she can see her hand shaking in the flashes of lightning… and he answers.

“Jane,” he says.

“I’m sorry—” Her voice shakes, stutters, cuts out on her (like the electricity to half of Storybrooke). And she’s cold, freezing because the housecoat and socks aren’t enough against the chill of the glass and the chill of exhaustion and the chill of linoleum underfoot. (The far-too familiar chill of terror.)

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. I—don’t—I don’t know.”

“Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. Her hair clings to her cheeks (like spiderwebs against her skin) and she bats it away. “No. I’m not… hurt, no.” She holds tight to the phone with both hands and presses it against her face until the plastic bites into her ear.

“Are you in danger?”

“No.”

She can hear his sigh of relief over the phone.

Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, and she bites her lip (because pain helps her focus, helps her keep her head when the rest of the world is cartwheeling around her).

“Mister Gold,” she says, and her voice fades to a whisper, until she can barely hear it over the rain spattering the windows. “I’m afraid.”

“Of the storm?”

(Of everything.)

“Yes,” she says. She swallows and rubs a hand across her mouth. “When it stormed, sometimes, the basement—my cell— would flood.” Her fingers drum a frantic beat against her lips and she begins to walk, pacing the length of the window and staring at the floor (because she can remember water rising over her ankles, and the emotions are too strong, too vivid because she has so few memories to block them out).

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, but she doesn’t think he intends to, because he’s never said it before— because it’s nearly three AM and she shouldn’t have called him (but she isn’t afraid of him anymore and she doesn’t want to be alone).

She leaves the windows and crawls into the armchair, curling her legs up beneath her chin. “The water would start coming through the window,” she says. “They’d restrain me, and sedate me, and move me—and I can never remember anything about the room except it was always dark and smelled like mold. And the pipes dripped. Maybe it was a storage room, I don’t know.”

He doesn’t speak, but there’s a hitch in his breath (like anger or sadness or maybe fear, maybe fear just like her).

“Sometimes they wouldn’t even move me. I’d be stuck on the cot until morning, and it was cold, and—”

They’d come in the next morning with buckets and mops (and sometimes pipes and tubes and ‘shop-vacs’). And they’d try to fix the windows, and the nurses would keep her back from the workmen like she’d bite them, like she was some sort of animal. And maybe the window would keep the rain out for a few months. Maybe a year. But inevitably, like everything else, the seal would break.

And the water would come again.

She feels her voice break and she hears her tears hit the upholstery and she doesn’t try and stop it.

“Are you alone?” he asks quietly, after a long rumble of thunder chokes her with a sob. (It’s too late for this. She’s been up for too many hours and she’s just learned about magic and maybe if the storm just came a few days later she would be fine.)

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Do you want me there, with you?”

(Yes.)

She shakes her head. “I just need— to hear you.  I just need to know that I’m not going to be left alone.” (Alone in the dark. And the water.)

“I’m not going to leave you, Jane,” he says, so quietly she can hardly hear him over the crash of rain. “Not now and not ever.”

She wipes tears from her cheek with her sleeve. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

“Hush, love, shh. It’s alright.” His voice sounds soft, quiet and soothing and gentle, (spring rain on a patio instead of the gale that roars outside).

The wind changes direction and whips twigs and random debris against the glass. She takes a deep breath to remind herself that the water is outside, and she is inside, and Mister Gold is on the other side of the phone, and the storm will be over in the morning (and she will be _fine_.) She pulls her housecoat a little closer. “I thought I had a choice. I thought I could just… do brave things, and after a while I’d just stop being scared.”

“Do the brave thing and bravery will follow,” he says.

“Exactly,” she says. “But I _am_ trying. I _am_ doing brave things. So where’s my bravery?”

“Maybe it just takes… time.”

“I’m tired of waiting.” (It’s driving her mad.) “Sitting around in a hospital, hoping for someone to wave a magic wand and make it all better. I can’t live like this.”

“You’re healing.”

“I’m hiding.” She takes a deep breath and tucks her hair behind her ear. She cradles the phone against her face and wills warmth back into her fingers. “I can’t stay here anymore.”

(If she isn’t imagining it, if it isn’t an illusion like the rain on the windows casting imaginary floods onto the floor tiles, she hears his heart crack down the middle.) “Here?”

“The hospital.”

He breathes out.

“I’ve stayed too long already.”  She hadn’t even realized it, but memories of the asylum lurk at the back of her mind, hiding in the whitewashed walls and the sound of nurses chatting in the halls. In the smell of antiseptic and the clink of syringes on metal trays. Clawing at her. Pressing in on her. (Making her _crazy_.)  “I need to leave.”

“When?”

“Today. Tomorrow. As soon as I can.”

“Do you plan to stay in the library?”

“…is that alright?”

“Perfectly. I’ll have someone clean it for you in the morning.”

“I can do it,” she says.

“And I can hire someone.”

“And I can clean my own apartment, thank-you.”

Her lips twitch into a smile, the first in what seems like an eternity, and she thinks his might too. (Either that or he’s rolling his eyes, wondering how he managed to involve himself with a stubborn unstable terrified amnesiac.)  “Very well.” 

They lapse into silence, and the rain begins to slow, and exhaustion weighs her down like a concrete slab.

She has questions.

Now that she knows about magic, about abduction and her father—now that the thunder is rumbling away and her heart has stopped jumping about in her chest— she wants to know the mundane details of her life. If he’s the land lord, or if the town pays for the upkeep of the building (because there are a few things that need repairing before the library opens). What her salary will be, and when the town will start paying her, (because Emma doesn’t know and Gold is the only one familiar enough with the town charter to figure things out).  When she can open the library (because maybe if she has a job, she can reclaim her life, bit by bit).

But it’s the middle of the night, and her mind grows foggier by the second  (and it sounds like Mister Gold might be falling asleep on the other end of the phone), and now is not the time for those questions.

(Now is the time for a more important one.)

“What should I call you?”

He pauses for a moment. “Mister Gold, if you’d like.”

“Do you want me to call you Mister Gold?” She will if he wants, but (after tonight, especially) it just sounds so formal. So cold. More like the pawnbroker or a friendly neighbour than a man who would wake up at three AM just so she could hear his voice.

“It’s up to you.”

“Well then, do you want me to call you Rumplestiltskin??”

He sounds pained. “No, actually, I think I’d rather you didn’t.”

(Too much like Belle.)

“What, then?”

“It’s… ” He takes a moment, and takes a breath, and then he says, “Rum. You can call me Rum.”

She smiles. “Okay.” She takes a breath and uncurls her legs, placing her socked feet deliberately on the (dry) tiled floor. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says.

They say their goodnights.

She calls him Rum, and he calls her Jane, (and she imagines his eyes say _Belle_ ).

 

xxxx

 

She wakes up at ten and phones him as soon as her teeth are brushed.

 “It’s me.”

“Hey.”

They exchange small talk. His business. The library. The newest breakfast special at Granny’s, and the field of magic beans grown by a giant and a pack of dwarves in the outskirts of town. (They specifically avoid the topic of weather, which is sunny and also pretending to ignore last night’s chaos.)

She pushes her way out of the hospital and starts down the street.

“I… have a question,” she says.

“Of course.” (To his credit, he doesn’t seem annoyed, or frightened, or anything but willing.)

“W—” She clears her throat and side-steps a puddle, hitching her purse further up on her shoulder. “Would you like to get a hamburger?” A pause. “With me?” Another pause. “We… uh… never got to finish ours. Or order them, really.”

She’s taken so much from him. And if she can cheer him by sharing a few hours over hamburgers, she will. It’s time to give something back (although if she’s perfectly honest, this might still classify as taking because she wants it too).

His silence stretches on until her ears burn, and she ducks her head to hide a rising blush on her face from the passers-by on the sidewalk.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” he says. There’s a smile in his voice.

 “Good,” she says. “Because I’m starving. Meet me at Granny’s in an hour?”

He stammers a yes and she hangs up the phone. She stops into Granny’s on the way to the library and makes a reservation for two.

Maybe he isn’t perfect. (And he still looks at her with _Belle_ ringing in his eyes.) Maybe he’s dangerous, but not to her. (And he assaulted her father and tried to kill a pirate and held fire in his hands.) Maybe he’s old and crippled and everyone in the town hates him. (And he weighs her down with apologies and carries grief in his sad brown eyes.)

But Belle would have forgiven him, and Jane owes him enough to try.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE WEEK UNTIL EXAMS.
> 
> THANK YOU ALL FOR THE SUPPORT AND THE REVIEWS. 
> 
> THANK YOU TO ANTIKRYPTONITE FOR BETAING AND CHIPPEDCUPOFCHAI FOR BEING AWESOME AND SUPPORTIVE.
> 
> I WILL DO MY BEST TO POST ON TIME NEXT WEEK. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING. -wobbles into the corner to put a cold cloth over studied-out eyeballs-


	11. Chapter 11

They meet at Granny’s for lunch, and discuss business.

Between bites of hamburger and crispy fries, they speak of investors, budgets, salaries, benefits—and she’s amazed how animated he can be over topics she expected to find so droll. They meet for ice-cream the next day, and the day after that (she orders a milkshake and then a banana split but he never deviates from a plain vanilla cone), and he pulls out a briefcase full of documents. He circles and highlights various clauses with a fountain pen that probably costs more than her father makes in a month, and asks her to read carefully before she signs.

When he pauses to explain a phrase in detail, she follows the trail of his finger across the page and finds she trusts his suggestions more than she trusts her ability to decipher the legal jargon. She argues over money on principal (even though the number he names is more than adequate), and she signs with a ballpoint she keeps tucked behind her ear.

They ignore the press of people around them, and order endless cups of tea, and smile. And laugh. He tells jokes with a glint in his eye, and she offers him book recommendations for things he’s never read and likely never will.  (He distracts her. It’s strange and not altogether unpleasant.)

By Wednesday, she has a contract and a salary. By Thursday, she begins cleaning her apartment. By Friday, she sets a date for the library’s opening.

By the end of the week, she has newfound hope and bravery to spare…

And a deep, abiding fondness for plain vanilla ice cream cones.

 

xxxx

 

Granny’s at noon, she tells him over the phone, and she slides into the booth nearest the door at precisely eleven forty-five. She buries her nose in a book and forces herself not to stare at the clock above the counter, forces herself not to count down the long minutes as noon marches ever closer. Forces herself not to bite her lip, not to drink all her iced-tea before her meal is even ordered, not to worry and fret as twelve o’clock comes and goes and leaves her sitting solitary in a booth by the door.

She reads _The Three Musketeers_ , and wishes she was as brave as D’Artagnan.

She’s not.

But maybe she’s as brave as she needs to be, so when the door finally opens and a burst of fresh air brushes against the back of her legs, she spins around in her seat and watches her father step into the diner. She’s as brave as she needs to be, so she waves him over. (Not that he couldn’t have found her himself. She wears a dress the colours of the sky at dawn, pale blue with starbursts of orange and yellow and deeper blue spread across it like rising fires, and in a half-empty diner she’s not exactly camouflaged.)

Moe approaches the table with one arm held behind his back, looking sheepish and rubbing the back of his neck, and she gestures to the empty seat across from her. She smiles.

He smiles back (and it’s little more than a hesitant, nervous little twitch of the lips, just like hers) and slides into the booth, a little awkwardly. He pulls his hand from behind his back and tucks it under the table before she can see what he’s holding. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Lost track of time, I guess.”

She nods. Glances at her page number and then lays her book down on the red vinyl beside her. “That’s okay. You’re here now.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

She has no answer for him.  They both know why she hasn’t been answering his calls. They both know why she pulled back. They both know why she hasn’t come to dinner on Wednesdays for weeks, and it doesn’t bear repeating.

“I, uh, brought these for you,” Moe says after a too-long pause. He pulls a bouquet of daisies from under the table and reaches them across to her, narrowly avoiding dunking the stems in her iced-tea.

She takes them and smiles. A genuine smile this time. A smile of a woman given flowers by her father. (A smile because maybe he’s trying.)

“I wasn’t sure what kind you liked,” he pauses. (She hears an unspoken “anymore” in the tone of his voice.) He gives a little shrug and pulls his hand back. “But I figured it’s hard to go wrong with daisies.”

“Thank you,” she says. They’re held together by a clear elastic band around the stems, bright and cheerful and still moist with tiny droplets of water beading on the petals. She grasps a petal lightly between her fingers (a _he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not_ gestures that seems entirely appropriate considering the situation) and rubs it gently with the pad of her thumb before setting the bouquet on the bench beside her. “They’re beautiful.”

After Granny comes by to take their orders (she asks for lasagna, with soup and salad to start, and he gets the fish and chips), they make small talk.

They discuss his shop. The library. The storm. What she does in her free time and if she’s ever been bowling (the answer is no—not yet).

It’s gotten easier to fill the silence (a few outings with Rum for practice, and she can chat her way through almost anything), but even a thorough discussion of the weather can’t dismiss the tension between them. News of his flower shop fills the remainder of their time as they wait on lunch, but it doesn’t hide the awkward pauses, the nervous sips of his strong black coffee, her teeth catching the inside of her bottom lip or her fingers toying with the corners of her skirt.

“So I—uh—I got my first paycheque yesterday,” she says.

He drains the rest of his coffee before setting his mug down on the table with a deep, ungraceful ‘clink’ of porcelain. He smiles and then laughs.  “Ah, so you’re buying, are you?”

It’s a joke. (She doesn’t know if he thinks it’s funny or if he’s just trying out levity like an ill-fitting jacket, but it falls flat.)

“Actually,” she says, and it takes an effort to keep the quirk of her lips from sinking into a frown, “I was planning on it.” She pats her purse, knowing it contains notes and a bank card belonging to ‘Jane French’, independence and freedom and proof of how far she’s come. (She’s not who she was. She’s no longer a woman on a cot in a dark, flooding room—because now she’s a woman who wears sky-blue and orange dresses, earns her own living, and takes her father out for lunch.)

“That’s very kind of you, Belle—”

She blinks once and tries not to let him see her flinch.

“—but I was only teasing. You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she says. “But I want to.”

“You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

Maybe she’s not as rich as Mister Gold. Maybe she only has a few weeks of working experience (that she can remember), but her pay is fair. She has few expenses—few needs besides food and funds for the occasional outing with Ruby—and she’s more than capable of affording a meal for her father.

“Well, in that case, I suppose I could use a second cup of coffee.”

“And you’re more than welcome to it.” Her lips twitch up, a little easier this time, and she pulls a paper napkin from the stack at the side of the table, smoothing the creases and folding it into a perfect square. “You can even have dessert.”

He smiles and this time it creases his entire face; this time it lights up his eyes and opens his mouth and pulls a chuckle from somewhere deep in his chest. And it would have been so satisfying, (if she’d never heard of kidnapping). It would have been pleasant, (except that his eyes and his voice and his hands are heavy on her mind, like a ball and chain, like an anvil, like immovable metal doors with hinges that never break). It would have been everything she would have wanted, (but she can see the inevitability of his disappointment on the horizon, and it looks like an oncoming storm).

And so she merely smiles back. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t grab his hand, even though he rests it on the middle of the table like he desperately wants to rest his palm over her fingers and pretend she’s still Belle.

“So,” he says, and he pulls his hand back a few inches, fiddling with his empty coffee cup as if that were always his intention, “I guess you’ll be opening the library soon.”

“A few weeks,” she says. She folds her square napkin in half, corner to corner, forming a triangle. “As long as everything goes according to plan. I’m trying to transfer the catalogue into the computer, but it’s been… difficult.”

“How so?”

She tucks the triangle beneath her glass of iced tea and rubs her palms on her skirt. “I don’t… entirely remember how to use a computer?”

“I could always help you, if you need it. I’m no expert, but maybe—”

She shakes her head and lowers her gaze to the tabletop. “No, thank you. I already have someone helping me.”

She can hear him shift on the bench, the groan of his weight against the vinyl, his little involuntary cough.

“Who’s that, then?”

It’s none of his business, and the wariness in his tone turns her stomach. But she’s determined to give him another chance, (for her own sake, not his), and so she gives him the answer he asks for (because she has no right demanding honesty if she’s unwilling to offer it).

“Emma,” she says. She glances to the daisies at her side and tries to ignore his very obvious relief. Tries to focus on the good— and ignore the rising dread of what will happen when she _does_ tell him about Rum. (And she _will_ tell him. She’ll tell him because he’ll make his choice. And then she’ll make hers.)

“That’s… great,” her father says.

“I’m so glad you approve.”

“All I mean is that it’s important to start your new life off on the right note. And with… everything going on…” He trails off and rubs his neck (and she thinks of his neck-brace, of doctor’s bills and a gold handled cane). “I just think it’s important to choose the right friends, that’s all.” He leans forward, and his hands are on the table again, reaching out to her (and she folds her hands on her lap and pretends not to notice). “This is your fresh start. Your chance to get your life in order, make the right choices. No complications, no distractions—”

“Complications?” She nearly laughs, but it’s not funny. “Father, I…” She takes a breath, lifts a hand from her lap to hold it in front of her like a wall to hide behind. “My life,” she says, making eye contact, blue on blue, “is a complication.”

His smile fades. He searches her face, and he looks worried (or maybe just defensive) for the first time since handing her the daisies (as if flowers have erased the _complications_ and he thinks his sins have been absolved). “Belle, please, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Stop calling me Belle,” she says. She pulls another napkin from the stack and begins folding it. Lining up the corners, sliding her nails along the creases to crisp the edges.

“Then what do you want me to call you?”

“By my name? It’s Jane now, by the way. Nobody else seems to have a problem remembering.” (Only Mister Gold and his tragic brown eyes, but he’s _trying_ , and he’s doing more than bringing her flowers and pretending nothing’s changed.)

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It takes some adjustment.”

“I agree,” she says. “It does.” (More than he knows. Long nights and long weeks and endless months of adjustment.) “But if you want to be part of my life, you’re going to have to accept it.” He starts to stammer an apology, but she holds up her hand. (No more. Not unless he means it. Not unless he changes first.) “Please,” she says. “Just… try.”

He nods, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Of course. I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” She reaches for her iced tea and hopes he doesn’t notice her shaking hands. (Though she imagines it’s hard to miss, with the ice cubes rattling like dice as she lifts it from the table and unsticks the folded napkin from the bottom of the glass.)

“I’ve disappointed you,” he says, as soon as she lifts her drink to her lips. (And for a brief moment, she wishes she was with Leroy because his “special brand” of iced-tea would do wonders for her nerves.)

She finishes the tea before answering, before even allowing herself to process his words—tips the glass straight back and drains it to the dregs in a long swig that leaves her lungs screaming for air. And then she sets it back on the table, glass clinking and ice cubes shaking, and wipes her mouth with the triangle-folded napkin. “Father, I—”

She wants to tell him no. She wants to say ‘of course not’, and shake her head, and force a smile (like pretending she enjoys undercooked spaghetti and the heat of his palms on the back of her hands). But she stops. Because—maybe her expectations were unrealistic—but he _has_ disappointed her. Maybe she’s being unreasonable, but she had hoped for someone who would help her and cherish her and respect her, (she wished for a father), and she’s been trying to get away from Moe since the first day they met.

“I just thought it would be easier for you,” she says, “considering all your talk of new starts. I suppose I’m just surprised you’re holding so tightly to the past.”

His brow creases, deepening the lines in his face. He rubs his jaw and stares into his coffee cup, and doesn’t speak for a long moment. “Don’t have much else to hold on to, I guess,” he finally says. (The regret in his eyes tugs at her heartstrings, sends her stomach twisting—but she has momentum and bravery, and it’s too easy to slide down into self-pity, and she bites her lip.) “And I thought you’d want to be Belle, no matter what.”

(She does want to be Belle. But wanting and reality are two very different things.)

She sighs. Takes a breath.

“I lost my memories,” she says. “The first thing I remember is waking up on the side of some road with a bullet in my shoulder. As far as I know, my whole life begins there. That _changes_ a person.” She narrows her eyes and shakes her head and tries to understand his position—tries to understand how he can sit across from her and talk of his daughter in such pleasant terms (like Belle’s just playing hide-and-seek and might come skipping back at any moment). Wonders how he can pull her close and wrap her in meaty, strong-armed hugs, and then systematically dismiss her every word (like she’s a child, like she’s brainless instead of just memoryless).

He just stares at her.

“I appreciate that you’re trying to help, Father, but I’m not who I was. So if I need a new name to feel like a person instead of a walking memorial service, I hardly think that’s too much to ask.”

His eyes are shimmering, and he looks like she’s stabbed him in the gut—but tears sting at the back of her eyes too, and if she could have feigned contentment for another second she would have kept her peace.

 “I can be your daughter,” she says. (And she wants to be. More than anything. She wants to smile at him and bring him casseroles and hold his hands without his fingers feeling like shackles around her wrists.) “But I can’t replace the one you lost.”

“You’re right, of course.” A pause. His thick finger wrapped around the handle of his coffee cup. A reluctant syllable dropping from his mouth. “Jane.”

Any chance for further discussion vanishes instantly with the clink of dishes and Granny’s emergence from the kitchens.  She carries a pot of coffee in one hand and balances a tray expertly on the other. Lasagna and fish and chips and a tall iced tea (because in all the times Jane has visited Granny’s, she’s never ordered fewer than two glasses).

Jane wipes her eyes with the corner of her triangle napkin and clears her empty glass out of the way.

“Everything okay here?” Granny asks, when she gets close enough to the table to avoid shouting across the diner.

“Fine,” Moe says.

Jane smiles and nods (and it’s funny how much easier it is to make eye contact with Granny than with her own father).

Granny smiles and nods back (although her cheeriness is not entirely convincing), and lays the plates of food on the table, filling Moe’s cup before gathering Jane’s empty glass and folded napkins. “Well, enjoy. She catches Jane’s eye and raises an eyebrow behind her circular glasses. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Her father drains half his coffee and pours vinegar on his chips. He picks up his cutlery and begins to cut into his food, and she wishes she still had an appetite.

She picks up her fork and places a new napkin (unfolded) across her lap and stares at her lasagna. It’s red and orange and covered in melted cheese and surrounded by fresh salad, and it smells divine but she can’t convince her stomach to agree, so she just cuts it with the side of her fork and takes a sip of her iced tea. (It leaves her mouth cold and her lips numb and the sour taste of lemon wrinkles her nose.)

The silence won’t last. It can’t.

So she decides to break it.

“Father?”

He looks up. She pauses and purses her lips and waits until he swallows.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He nods and takes a sip of coffee. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Were you happy this happened to me?” She drags her fork across her plate to push her salad together into a pile. It rasps against the porcelain and sends goosebumps down her arms, and she watches the runoff vinaigrette swirl with the red tomato sauce.

“What?” He sounds genuinely befuddled.

“When you heard I lost my memories… were you glad?”

“Of course not. ” A too-long pause. He pops another bite of fish into his mouth and chews, rubs his jaw with the palm of his hand, sighs through his nose. Swallows. “What makes you say that?”

“I heard some things. About you.” She slices another corner of her lasagna with the side of her fork. “Specifically, that you wanted to make me forget.”

He lifts another bite of fish to his mouth and chews slowly. Too slowly, like his too-long pauses, as if he’s made of tin and his joints are rusting up. As if his muscles are tense and his breathing is steady and he’s trying too hard to pretend he’s oblivious. (As if he’s angry and scared, and a man backed against a wall can be a dangerous thing.)

“Who told you that?” he asks.

“Emma.” And Rum. (But it’s not a lie. Emma did tell her.)

He doesn’t answer.

“Father, what did you do?”

He takes another bite of his lunch.

“Please,” she says, and maybe she would grab his hand if he wasn’t grasping the fork like a weapon, or drumming his fingers against the table. “Just tell me the truth.”

“I thought it would be the best for you,” he says.

“So you kidnapped me?”

“I was only trying to help.” (She knew it was true, but it’s so hard to hear.)          

“Why didn’t you tell me before? You didn’t have to hide it.”

“Because I knew you’d react like this.”

“Like what?” She stares at him.

“Like… this. Angry.” He purses his lips and glances down to his place. “Hurt.”

“How do you want me to react?” She drops her fork on her plate and folds her hands on her lap, scrunching skirt and napkin together between clenched fists. She lowers her voice and raises her eyes. “You kidnapped me.”

His gaze snaps up to meet hers. “I did it for your own good. I’ve done everything for you.”

“No.” She shakes her head, and her hands are up again, in front of her, between the two of them and holding him back. “You’ve done everything for _you_. Love isn’t kidnapping. Love isn’t controlling my life.” (Love isn’t holding _Belle_ over her head like a cage, like a future and a past and the only part of her that matters.) She sighs, and before she can think of implications or feelings or the lasagna growing cold on the plate, she pulls the napkin off her lap and slaps it down on the table.

“What are you doing?” her father asks.

“I have to go,” she says.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m meeting Rum for dinner. I can wait until then.” She fumbles in her purse for her wallet.

“Rum?” he asks. (It sounds sour and bitter when he says it, with the after-burn of the drink itself and none of the sweetness.)

“Mister Gold,” she says.

He’s mad. She can tell. His face turns red (and her face is red too), and she thinks the fork in his fist might snap in half.

 “You can’t love him,” he says.

“I never said I did. I just met him. I hardly know anything about him.” She lays two bills on the table and tucks them under the corner of her plate. There’s enough there to cover the food, plus a tip, and the lasagna isn’t eaten but Granny will understand. (In fact, Granny watches from the counter with crossed arms and a stern look, and Jane has no doubt that she’s on her side.)

“Then why—”

“Because I know he loves me.” (And that’s more than she can confidently say about Moe.) “He’s a part of my life now. And until you can accept that, I don’t want to see you.”

She fastens her purse and slings the strap over her arm, gathering up her book and the bouquet of daisies. 

Until he can forgive Rum, she doesn’t know if she can forgive him.

 “But…” he says, staring at her, reaching out (and he tries to put his hand on her arm but she pulls away), “I thought this was our chance for a new start.”

She stands. “Goodbye, father.”

“Don’t leave,” he says.

It’s not a request. (It’s a command, frantic and shoved in her face like a porcelain cup, and she ignores it.)

“Belle—”

She pushes open the door, and the breeze lashes her skirt against her legs and drowns out his pleas for her to stay. (Erases commands and disappointments, and it’s so much easier to distance herself when the wind scours the regret from his voice.)

“Belle—sweetheart!”

She’s not Belle. (And he doesn’t care.)

She closes the door behind her.

A new start is a new start (and makes it so much easier to walk out on the man who calls himself her father than she ever would have expected).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Long story short, I missed my exams, had to reschedule, AND got a sinus infection all in the span of about a week and a half. Not conducive to writing. BUT, we should be back to our regularly scheduled broadcast after this, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> A MAJOR thanks to AK for rescuing me and editing this at ridiculous hours at night while I was sleeping so I could post it today, and to Chippedcupofchai for looking it over a few days ago when I was floundering in despair and AK was sleeping. xD I LOVE YOU BOTH.


	12. Chapter 12

She's nervous.

She shouldn't be, (it's not like she's trying to climb a mountain or slay a beast—she's just eating dinner with Rum), but her stomach twists and her hands shake and her teeth chatter against her glass every time she tries to take a sip, and she's so jittery she thinks she might drop her food all down the front of her dress.

She's nervous because this is not like other dinners. Not like chicken parmesan at Granny's or crab legs at the little seafood restaurant by the docks. Not like hamburgers and Cobb salad and casual pancakes just before Ruby switches the diner over to lunch menus at eleven. Not even like ice cream or the picnic by the beach. (This time he's cooked pork chops with mandarin oranges and garlic mashed potatoes and a vegetable medley, and it tastes like heaven when she can actually get it to her mouth.)

This time it feels like a date.

The other outings have been dates (technically), she knows. But this feels like a flowers and candlelight, wine and soft music, chocolate mousse for dessert and kissing afterwards kind of date. (This time it feels like it matters.)

She's confused (because there's nobody around to regulate her feelings—and some days she doesn't even feel qualified to dress herself, let alone sort through matted options that lay before her like a tangle of yarn). She doesn't know if she wants to be on a date with him. She doesn't know if she wants to sit here (in the place that used to be Belle's) and force smiles across the table. She doesn't know if she's a smitten kind of nervous or a too-deep-too-fast kind of nervous and she needs to get out.

(She doesn't know if she wants him to kiss her, but she doesn't know that she  _doesn't_  want him to, either.)

He notices.

He stops eating. Lays his fork and knife down on the side of his plate and takes a sip of water. His expression looks like he walked face first into a tangle of brambles, but he keeps his voice calm (and she appreciates the effort). "Is something wrong?"

She purses her lips and shakes her head. Shrugs. "I don't know."

"Is there… anything I can do?"

She wipes her mouth with the napkin from her lap, and her lipstick leaves a smear of red against the navy cloth. "I don't know," she says honestly.

He was smiling when they started dinner, but he isn't smiling now. Now his eyes plead with her; now he's terrified she'll walk out and leave him sitting at the table, (like she's left her father, like she's left him so many times before). Now he looks nervous and that only makes things worse.

"I think… maybe I just need some air?"

She wants to comfort him like he's comforted her, and maybe it's not a lie. Maybe she really does need some air, and the breeze and the sky and the low-hanging sun will stop her head from spinning and stop her heart from trying to pound out of her chest. Maybe it will vanquish the walls and the doors, and she can surround herself with flowers (instead of the trappings of his power), and the sky (instead of the house where Belle used to live, in a place filled with her memories).

He smiles an exact smile, a careful smile, and pulls his cloth napkin off his lap. He folds it twice and lays it neatly beside his plate before standing. "How about we take a stroll in the garden?"

The air feels lighter, already less stale (even though he hasn't opened the door yet) and she smiles. "Okay," she says.

He fetches his cane from where it hangs on the edge of the kitchen counter, and she thinks he might be relieved, just like her. (He hasn't mentioned Belle, but Jane can _tell_ , she can see the loss in his eyes just the same as she can see the photograph of them together above the mantelpiece, or the way one bedroom door was kept locked when he gave her the tour of the house.)

She folds her napkin (into a triangle, with a tiny smile on her lips) and tucks it under her plate. She stands, and runs her hand down the front of her sleek black dress to smooth out the wrinkles.

He holds the door for her, hand gesturing to the outside.

She wanted out, (but not away), so she lets him walk her along the little garden path that wraps around the house. Side-by-side (too close together or too far apart and she can't quite tell the difference any more), they pass ferns and a lattice of creeping vines, following the brick laid path onto his back patio.

The patio opens onto a manicured lawn, landscaped and cultivated and surrounded by a tall wood fence the colour of honey. Several trees, a little bench tucked under a tall black maple, flowers and bushes and an herb garden, and a small shed tucked neatly in the far corner. It smells of wet grass and peat moss and just-blooming flowers.

She stops at the edge of the bricks.

He stops too. Only his cane crosses the border, plants itself firmly onto the soft ground grass.

"You don't want to keep going?"

She does. But she's in heels and he has a cane and it hardly seems wise. (And that the edge of the patio seems like some sort of barrier, like moving from brick to grass is one step too far.) "I don't want to aggravate your leg," she says. "It seems like it's bothering you tonight."

"It is." His eyes flick up towards hers, and his mouth twists up. "But no more than usual."

She stares out at the yard and spots a line of pockmarks across the immaculate grass—little indents she follows with her eyes, around the trees and bushes, through the garden, to a rake leaning against the fence and a green apron hanging folded over the back of a patio chair.

"Did you do all this yourself?" she asks.

"Yes."

"By hand?"

"You sound shocked."

"I didn't know you were such a gardener," she says.

"Well," he gives a little shrug and shifts his weight, adjusting the angle of his knee and digging his cane a little deeper into the grass, "It seems I'm just full of surprises."

"I've noticed."

"Have you?"

She smiles. "I'm very observant."

"Indeed you are."

And he is surprising.

Surprising like the way he stands with his free arm hanging loose, (like her hand belongs in his, pressed against his palm, and he's unbalanced without it). Surprising like the way he stares out into the garden and smiles at her without really looking at her, (as if he knows that she feels unbalanced too, as if he can feel the magnets between them, as if he always planned for her to stand a single step closer).

The sun is setting (and the warmth is leaving), but that's not the only reason she moves towards him. Not the only reason she rubs her fingers together, to work up the nerve. She moves towards him and works up the nerve because she doesn't know what she wants (but she knows he needs touch as much as she needs touch, and she knows she's wanted to touch him since the day they he showed up in her library with a picnic basket).

And so she slides her hands into his. His palm is warm (and her skin crawls). But it's a good kind of crawl, (perhaps a smitten kind of crawl), and she doesn't entirely hate it because she knows he'll let her go if she asks him to.

For a moment he doesn't move. He stands stock still, as if shot, as if a bullet blasted straight through his shoulder and he's in shock and he doesn't remember who he is and the world is in chaos—and then his fingers close on hers. Gently. Feather-light. (As afraid and tentative as she feels, with something happy and heartbreaking all at once wavering in the back of his gaze.)

"Thank you," he says, after a long moment (in which he barely seems to breathe).

"For what?"

"For everything," he says, and he smiles.

She bites her lip and tries to ignore the rising heat in her face. Thankfully the sun is setting fast, and everything in sight glows as pink as her cheeks.

"We, uh…" She clears her throat and coughs into her free hand and tries to sound nonchalant. "We can go back, if you want?"

"We don't have to," he says. "If you're still hungry, I could bring our plates out here."

"It's okay," she says. "I think I'm ready."

He nods once and turns, and she slides her hand into the crook of his arm.

They're not quite in sync—his gait is a little awkward, and the rhythm of his cane feels out of step with their feet—but it feels good. It feels good, and he feels safe (and his navy dress shirt is softer than she expected, and his arm is warmer, and his muscles firmer). And she thinks she likes it.

"I'm sorry I ruined dinner," she says.

"You haven't ruined anything."

"It's probably cold by now."

"A problem easily mended, my dear."

She watches his face (because he watches where they're going so she doesn't have to), and tries to read his expression. "Magic?" she asks.

His lips twist up and he shrugs, and the extra bump in their already awkward gait causes her to stumble slightly. He steadies her and smiles. "I suppose we could do that," he says. "But I was referring to the microwave."

He pulls the door open and she laughs (and she's still unsteady, still wobbly on her feet because she's in heels and the bricks are uneven and he makes it extraordinarily hard to concentrate) and squeezes his arm a little tighter.

They finish dinner (thanks to a functional microwave), and eat a lovely dessert of chocolate mousse. They do dishes, and listen to the radio, and laugh at things that aren't particularly funny, and then he drives her back to the hospital. They sit in the parking lot, in the red leather interior of a black Cadillac, and talk until her throat grows sore. He walks her to the front door and bids her goodnight.

He doesn't kiss her, (but she's most definitely a smitten kind of nervous… and she doesn't think she'd mind).

xxxx

She doesn't remember high school, and her father isn't here, but Jane feels like a skulking teenager as she slips across the lobby and down the hallway to the wards. Except for an awkward and apologetic wave to a nurse by the coffee machine, she manages to avoid mostly everyone else. By the time she's halfway to her room, she carries her heels in one hand and her blue peacoat in her other—and she's glad she didn't ask the coffee machine nurse to help her with the zipper at the back of her dress, because when she turns the corner, she sees Doctor Whale sitting in a plastic chair just outside her door.

"Jane, hey." He stands. "I was hoping I'd catch you."

"Is—is something wrong?" she asks. (He's a doctor and it's long past midnight, and from everything she's read that's never a good combination.)

"No, not at all," he says. He smiles at her, (and if something was wrong he wouldn't be smiling). "I was just hoping to talk."

"Now?"

He spreads his hands (one holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee and the other with a flip-notebook) and shrugs. "No time like the present." He looks over her coat and shoes and dress, and then checks his wristwatch with a frown that crinkles his forehead and dampens his smile. "Unless you had other plans, of course."

She shrugs and sets her shoes and jacket on the floor, tucked in beside the wall. "Nothing that can't wait. Just sleep."

"Completely overrated," he says, and drains the rest of his coffee as if to prove his point.

"So… what did you want to talk about? At one in the morning. In the hallway."

"Well, you're moving tomorrow," he says. "And I don't work on Thursdays—not including emergency surgeries or women too pregnant to wait until Friday. So," he shrugs his hands into his pockets, notebook and coffee cup both disappearing into the white labcoat, "I just wanted to say goodbye while I still had the chance."

She smiles because he looks so sheepish, (and because it's the only way she can keep her eyes from watering). "I'm not going anywhere," she says with a laugh. "Just down the street."

"I know," he says.

"And the library  _is_  public—or, will be. You can come visit any time."

"I know," he says. He pulls his hands out of his pockets (but leaves the notebook and the cup in his lab coat) and folds his arms. "But to be perfectly honest, I'll be bored without you. After all, I don't get a new amnesia patient every day."

"Well, thank goodness for that."

"Although we do get considerably more than average. But, out all the amnesia patients I've personally treated…" he pauses, and smiles with teeth flashing and eyebrow cocked (and blue eyes soft, looking at her like a person and not like a patient and not like a ghost), "…you're my favourite."

"And you're going to make my cry." She bites her lip and stares at the floor so she doesn't have to meet his eyes.

"Hey, no, don't do that." He smiles, and she manages to smile back, and he hands her a plastic wrapped package of tissues from yet another pocket. "You should be celebrating. This is what you've been waiting for."

"I know," she says, and she's amazed at how fast their roles have changed (and maybe they support each other, and maybe they're less doctor and patient and more… friends).

"I'm very happy for you, Jane."

"Thanks, Doctor Whale."

"Viktor," he says. He tucks the tissues away (and she notices he keeps a spare one clutched in his own hand, and swabs at his eyes when he thinks she's not looking). "I have to get back to work," he says. "But I'll see you at the opening next Saturday."

"You don't have to work?"

"I wouldn't miss it," he says. "Of course, excepting emergency surgeries or pregnant women."

"I'll miss you."

He coughs (into the tissue, and he clutches it tight in his fist), and gives a shrug like it doesn't matter. "Let me know if you ever need anything, ever, and I'll be happy to help."

"I will."

"Goodnight." He picks up his plastic chair and begins walking down the hall. She collects her shoes and jacket from their place on the floor, and his footsteps stop. "Jane?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Have a good life out there," he says. (The confidence in his tone makes her think that maybe she  _can_.)

"Thanks, Viktor."

"No need to thank me," he says, and starts back down the hall with the chair tucked under his arm. "You deserve it."

And maybe confidence is catching, (because he says she deserves a good life, and for the very first time she feels like she  _does_.)

 


	13. Chapter 13

It’s not the first time she’s seen the apartment.

It’s not the first time she’s slid the key (the new key, the new doorknob, because the old key is still lost along with her old life) into the doorknob and stepped inside.

It’s not the first time she’s walked into welcoming open space, or heard her heels click on the floor, or pulled open all the curtains until the sun glowed off honey-coloured wood and blue-grey walls. (Not even the tenth time—she passed double digits last week, when she came in to test the plumbing and wash her first load of laundry in her own apartment.)

What this _is_ , however, is the first time she plans to stay. The first time it truly belongs to her. (The first time it feels like home.)

She doesn’t have many things to move. Most of the dishes and books and paintings on the walls are Belle’s, and most of the furniture has apparently been here since time immemorial (heavy and antique and set to last another eternity as long as she treats it with respect)—but she _has_ collected a few boxes of books and clothes, and a pleasant assortment of personal items over the past few months. A lamp Granny gave her, a stack of DVDs from Ruby (and a few sleek dresses she keeps tucked at the bottom of her suitcase), books from Doctor Whale and a charm bracelet from Henry  (who got it from Emma, who got it from Mary Margaret, who got it from Gold’s antique shop). Her copy of Jane Eyre and a bottle of white wine from Leroy and the pages from National Geographic. (A little bit of portable comfort, familiarity, and hope.)

She doesn’t have many things to move, but she has _important_ things to move—tangible things and meaningful things and things that belong to her.

But it’s still a big step. And it’s still a little frightening (even though she’s been here before), and so she’s glad that Rum and Emma offered to come along. Facing the empty spaces, the apartment alone, seems too exhausting a task. (They could each carry a single pencil, and they’d be a greater help than they could ever know.) They bicker and they scoff and they glare at one another, but they break the silence and make the newness seem a little more bearable. 

By ten o’clock, Emma follows her up the stairs with the final load of boxes, while Rum organizes the kitchen (both because she trusts him implicitly with breakables, and to save his leg on the stairs).

Emma’s box is marked ‘7/7’, and she trudges across the floor to the back of the room, where the shelves are already filled nearly floor-to-ceiling (with Belle’s books), and the other six boxes sit stacked at the base. Emma drops the box atop another two, creating one stack of three and one of four, and then brushes her hands against her jeans.

“Well, that’s the last of them.” She sticks her hands in her back pocket, and turns to Jane. “Unless you want us to start moving the rest of the library up here.”

Jane laughs. It does seem like Belle had hoarded a significant portion of the library, but she’s combed through every book just to make sure, and they’re all scrawled with ‘Belle’ on the inside of the covers. (She’s inherited a sizable collection—and she’s not complaining.)

“Do you want me to start unpacking or something?”

“No—thank you,” Jane says, perhaps a little too quickly. She smiles and tries to look appreciative (rather than terrified at the thought of Emma shelving books on an otherwise meticulously organized shelf). “I can do it later.”

Emma shrugs. “Anything else you want me to do?”

She only has books and clothes to unpack, and she’s cleaned and dusted everything several times over, and so she shrugs in return. “You could, uh, make some tea? I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup.” And Jane has no idea if Emma actually knows how to make tea, (because she’s only ever seen the sheriff with hot chocolate or coffee or occasionally alcohol in hand)—but Mister Gold is nearby for damage control.

And so Emma leaves. Jane can hear the clink of dishes and the sliding of drawers, (and the bickering begins almost instantly).

Gold’s voice is quiet, but the edge of irritation carries into the living room without trouble. “You do realize I’m supposed to be putting things _inside_ the cupboards, don’t you?”

“They’re going to be taken out eventually.” More sliding, opening, clinking. “Where’s the kettle?”

“Not out of the box yet.”

“Jane asked me to make tea. It’s a bit hard to do without boiling water.”

“Oh no,” and sarcasm _drips_ from his voice like honey, so thick that Jane has to hide her smile behind her hand to keep from laughing out loud, “if only there were another way to heat water. Something… metal, perhaps. Vaguely bowl shaped.” The clang of a pot on the counter.  Emma’s sigh of exasperation.

At great risk to the safety of her kitchen, Jane ignores them thoroughly and carries her box – open because she couldn’t be bothered to tape it shut—and goes into her bedroom.

Her room is furniture and bare walls, and only the beginnings of a character peeking through. A day bed near the window, a dresser and a bookcase given equal prominence along the wall, a little writing desk and a wooden chair near the door. Little glimpses of habitation in the choice of fountain pens instead of ballpoints, the full-length mirror with a to-do list in flowery handwriting written on a bright yellow sticky note, the fleur-de-lix pattern on the blue and white duvet, and the single framed photograph of a German castle above the bookcase.  Heavy curtains with rope ties she never wants to close, and a view of the town (and a view of the sky).

Maybe it’s not a mansion—but it’s comfortable, and it’s bright, and it’s charming (and it’s hers).

She opens the window and empties the box onto the bed, sitting on the corner of the mattress and spreading her belongings out across the covers. Her favourite sweater and her cell phone, some cards from the nurses and one from Doctor Whale, her copy of _Jane Eyre_. She’ll put them away before she sleeps, find little spots to tuck everything away, but for now she needs to see them. (Because sometimes she still has trouble believing that she sits in _her_ room, in _her_ life, that this is independence and freedom and everything she’s wanted).

She sits in the sunlight and the stillness, until she hears the clang of the teapot against the counter and remembers that _her_ kitchen is occupied and in very real danger (and her independence and freedom means that she is free to independently pay for any damages Rum and Emma might cause to _her_ crockery).

Somehow, in the time it takes her to move out of the bedroom and into the living room, just outside the doorway of the small kitchen, the more-or-less civil banter has degenerated into total war. Rum and Emma have drawn up battle lines on either side of the teapot (which steams away, white and currently lidless, on the counter between them). Emma brandishes a teaspoon at Rum, who holds out a finger that looks equally as deadly.

“You can’t just… magic spell… other people’s houses,” Emma says.

“And why not?”

“Because it’s none of your business? That’s kind of the definition of _other_ people’s houses.”

“Technically—” He turns his accusing, threatening finger in on himself, and taps his chest with his fingertips like he’s playing a piano on his breastbone.  “—I still own the deed. So I’m making it my business.”

“Technically,” Emma says, and stirs the tea with her spoon before pointing it at him again, dripping tea onto the tiled floor, “you gave it to her. And she lives here. So it’s not your call.”

“Cora’s still out there.”

“We haven’t heard from her in weeks.”

“All the more reason to be prepared.” He pulls three mugs from the cupboard (where a line of mugs are already lined up like tiny soldiers, perfectly spaced, handles facing out) and sets them down on the counter. “Don’t let her fool you, Miss Swan. She’s silent because she’s plotting something—and there’s nothing more dangerous in this world than a scheming Cora. Except for me.”

(They’re grandstanding now, Jane thinks. Puffed out chests and accusatory stares, smirks and a heavy roll of Emma’s eyes. But they’re also nervous. On edge. Tense because maybe a silent Cora is a deadly Cora, and maybe she really is waiting for the perfect place to strike.)

Emma folds her arms. “If you’re so dangerous, why don’t you just get rid of her right now?”

“I’m not omniscient. Do your _job_ , Sheriff, and find her, and then we’ll talk. Meanwhile, I’m going to do something useful and protect this library.”

“Belle wouldn’t like it.”

Something in Rum’s face slips. Like a curtain yanked from the window, his antagonism plummets away. For a moment he just stares at Emma, one hand on his cane and the other resting quietly on the countertop. He breathes. His brows crease almost imperceptibly. And then his eyes harden. “Belle’s not here,” he says.

No she’s not. (But Jane is.)

And it’s _her_ house now, and _her_ responsibility, and so she steps forward into the kitchen and smiles at them both. (Not in a mean way, not particularly, but in a way that establishes her presense effectively.) “You could always ask me instead,” she says, and she enjoys the expression of guilt frozen on Gold and Emma’s faces.

Gold recovers the quickest. He smiles back, smooth and unperturbed (a used car salesman kind of smile). He leans against the counter (his cane hangs from the back of the kitchen chair) and polishes the interior of the tea mugs with a tea towel he snatches from the drawer beside him. “Of course,” he says. “Of course, we will.”

“So,” she asks, and moves to the fridge to pull out a carton of milk, “what do you want to do to my house?”

“Magic,” Emma says, and Rum shoots her a look that silences her (and earns a glare in return).

He throws the towel over his shoulder. “It’s just a few spells, for protection. Nothing to worry about.”

“What kind of spells?” Jane asks. She hands him the milk.

“A barrier of sorts.” He pours a dribble of milk into each of the mugs. “People you don’t want in…” and he gives a little shrug, “…can’t come in.”

“Will it hurt them?”

He shoots another quick glance at Emma (another challenging, disapproving stare, as if daring her to confront him), and then says, “Yes. But only if they try and force their way inside.” He trades the carton for the pot of tea and fills the mugs. “And it won’t kill them.”

“My friends?” Jane asks.

“Will be unharmed,” he says.

“Visitors?”

“Fine,” he says.

“And nobody will die.”

“No.” He adds a half-teaspoon of sugar to her tea (because he’s paid attention to her order at Granny’s) and hands her the mug.

She accepts it, curls her hands around it and tilts her face to catch the steam curling up from the lip of the cup. “Okay,” she says, without looking up. “Do it.”

“What?” Emma says.

Jane looks up.

Rum smirks, and picks up his own mug, leaving the sugar and the third mug on the counter.

Emma snatches the remaining cup of tea (without adding sugar, even though Jane knows she has a sweet tooth) before crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter. She looks a little defensive, like she’s curling into an armoured shell, like she’s uncomfortable and on edge and expecting danger. “You’re sure about this?”

Jane looks at Rum, who drinks his tea one-handed (with his other hand braced against the counter for support) and pretends not to take interest in their conversation. She purses her lips and smiles and makes a decision. “I’m sure,” she says. “I trust him.”

Emma doesn’t. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she makes a face when she sips her scalding tea, and acts as though she doesn’t care. “Your call.”

Still not sure what she thinks of magic (all she remembers is fireballs and healing and terror, and he still hasn’t shown her magic like he promised), but if it will keep her safe, she’s willing to risk it. If Rum thinks it’s a good idea—if he’s willing to do it for her (and maybe for _Belle_ , but Jane doesn’t want to think about her right now)—then she’ll let him do what he needs to do.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Please.”

The corner of Rum’s mouth curls up when Jane tries to meet his gaze, but he tries to hide it beneath a sip of tea that looks almost too-casual. “I will gather the necessary supplies, and then Miss Swan and I will come back on Saturday,” he says.

“Wait a second,” Emma says. “I didn’t volunteer for this.”

“Consider it a learning opportunity.”

“What if I don’t want to learn?” Emma’s crossed arms and the scowl on her face (scalding tea and irritation mixed) make her look rather intimidating.

Rum, however, smiles at her like she’s nothing more than an obstinate child. “I can pick you up around eight, if you need a ride.”

Emma looks like she might throw her tea at Rum’s head, but then she sighs heavily through her nose and glares at him from under lowered eyebrows.  “I can drive myself.”

 

xxxx

 

She meets Rum at his pink house for dinner (after her books are unpacked and the teapot is washed and put away), and this time they _do_ eat outside. Tucked together on the bench under the maple, they eat stew and crusty bread, drink ice water and chilled white wine, and go for a walk when her bowl is empty and the just-setting sun makes her drowsy. He shows off his herb garden and the vast uncharted depths of his tool shed. He stands next to her as they talk, and she entwines her fingers with his.

And it feels wonderful.

It feels good to walk with him like this, feels good to touch him (because he needs it as much as her) and good to be touched. The pace of their steps more in sync, more at ease, and his hand so gentle around hers that she could almost forget he was there—except that her skin prickles in an entirely unexpected way (fizzing and happy, like bubbles in a soda), and he’s so very unforgettable. 

 “I have something I want to show you,” Rum says as they start down the brick path and back to the house (when the mosquitos start whining in their ears).

“I hope it’s dessert,” she says. She loops his arm through his elbow, and he stares at her like she’s a hallucination instead of a person (like he’s terrified to hold her close because she might slip away), and so she tightens her grip and smiles, just to watch his eyes grow wider.  “You did promise me a chocolate cake, you know.”

“I did, indeed,” he says. “But I promised you something else, first.”

Magic.

She knows it as soon as he says it. She can see it in his eyes, a swirling contradiction. Excitement and hope, and resignation and anticipation, and caution and _fear,_ all snarled together. And she wonders if she should be nervous too (or if he’s still bleeding from the words she said at the beginning of time, the ‘what are you’ aimed at a man who healed bullet holes with his hands and lit the sky on fire). 

She rubs her thumb across the material of his suit jacket, (because he needs the touch to assure him that she won’t leave again, even if he has magic, and she can see the corners of his mouth twitch when he pretends not to notice). He tightens his elbow and pulls her just a little closer to his side.

He leads her past the kitchen, to the end of the path near the end of the fence, and stops in front of a pair of cellar doors.

The wind (until now, a summer breeze) grows suddenly cold.

He pulls away from her to open the doors, and Jane swallows. She glances at the first two stairs, illuminated by watery garden sunlight, and bites her lip.

“Down there?” she asks.

He turns to look at her (and she can hear the concern in his voice, even though she stares at the ground and not at the basement and not at his eyes). “Is that a problem?” he asks quietly.

“Maybe,” she says, and it’s the truth. Maybe she’ll be fine, but maybe she’ll panic, because she hasn’t been in a basement since _then_ and she hadn’t planned to go in a basement again for a long time.

“Do you want to try?” he asks.

She trusts him. But it’s one thing to trust him in the garden and the diner, and another thing entirely to trust him down there (in the dark), hedged in by worn and wooden doors, hinged in with wrought iron handles and wrought iron locks. By concrete steps and dirt (and, truthfully, she doesn’t know what his basement looks like, but she doesn’t like basements).

She stares down into the darkness because it seems to writhe before her eyes, screaming and clawing away from the sudden light. She stares down into the darkness like the darkness might bite her.

He takes two steps down and flicks a light switch on the wall. “We won’t be long, I promise.” He holds out his hand.

The weight of indecision seems to crush her, Encyclopedia Britannica resting directly on her chest, making it hard to breathe. And he waits so patiently, and she can see the flicker of hope in his sad brown eyes, and she knows she’s not Belle (because Belle would have gone down with him right away) and it hurts as acutely as a coffee table to the shin.

But she also sees that there’s a window, and it’s dry down there (no water and no floods and no storms). And the basement smells of wood shavings and straw, and a faint smell like cinnamon, or like bitter coffee or baking bread or something she can’t quite name but _almost_ remembers. So unlike the hospital, (and his eyes are unlike the hospital because his eyes are soft) and if she doesn’t want to go down the stairs he won’t make her.

And she knows she’s not Belle, but maybe in this moment he just wants Jane.

She takes his hand.

He helps her down the stairs, and they conquer each step one at a time (because he has a cane and she can’t stop shivering), and he leads her to a room defined by rough unfinished wood, a spinning wheel and a pile of straw in the corner beneath the window, and a shelf of brightly glowing bottles.  (A lonely, quiet, place, tinged with the same shade of grief as his eyes— and she thinks she’ll recognize the echo of wood beams and spinning wheels and straw in his smile ever after.)

It’s brightly lit, and visible from the garden through the little window above ground-level, (and not frightening in the least).

“You alright?” he asks.

She realizes she’s still hanging onto his arm, and she relinquishes her grip. She lets her hands fall to her sides, and she runs her palms over her skirt to combat imaginary wrinkles.  “Fine,” she says. (And she’s surprised to find it true. Maybe she was right to do the brave thing, because maybe bravery _did_ follow.)

“Good,” he says. He unbuttons his jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair that sits beside the spinning wheel. “Because I promised to show you magic.” He sits down and lays his cane on the clear floor to his left. From the pile on the right side of the chair, he picks up a handful of straw.

She narrows her eyes. “Really?”

He raises his eyebrows and looks entirely too innocent as he begins to thread straw into the wheel.

“You’re really going to spin it?”

He nods. (As if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if to say ‘whatever do you mean?’ and pretend it holds absolutely no connection to the fact his name is _Rumplestiltskin_.)

“Into gold?” She can hear her own disbelief, and she’s (almost) joking… but he smirks, and he does something with his hands that makes the wheel turn and the straw glint. “I can’t believe it. You actually _are_.”

She shakes her head and takes a step closer, skirting around the pile of straw, leaning close—and the wheel turns faster, and he adds more straw, (and maybe he is really Rumplestiltskin, because you can’t make thread from straw and you can’t make gold from thread, but there it is, pooled onto the floor).

He places one hand on the wheel to halt its movement, and then pulls a pair of scissors out of thin air (in a very literal, non-metaphorical sense, in which one moment he holds no scissors and the next he does). He snips a length from the thread and says, “Here.”

She holds out her palm. Slowly, he pools it in her hand. It clinks, and it’s heavy, and it’s cool metal against warm skin, and it’s definitely gold.

“Well?” he asks.

“Well… it’s gold,” she says.

“Indeed it is.”

“It’s… magic,” she says.

“Yes.”

“It’s… not what I expected.”

He blinks. He tilts his head, and looks up (and it feels so strange to stare down at him, to see the top of his head instead of the bottom of his chin, to see the light in his eyes instead of the shadows, to see the glint of teeth when he smiles). “What were you expecting?”

“More?”

A flash of gold amidst a flash of teeth. “Are you looking for a raise already?”

“No—I just meant—“ She sighs, and closes her hand over the thread. “I suppose I just expected it to be flashier? You know, more… magical looking?”

“If you were expecting blood sacrifice,” he says, and snips another length of gold thread from the long strand pooled at his feet, “I gave that up time ago.”

She gives him a small smile. “Before or after you stopped stealing babies?”

“Before,” he says. He snips another length and lays the two strands across his knee.  “It’s been a slow but steady reform.”

She nods slowly, affecting mock sincerity for what (she assumes) is a mock confession. (Although now, after _Rumplestiltskin_ and straw into gold, she’s not entirely certain of the difference between the truth and a quip.)

“By the way,” he says,” I’ll be needing that back.”

Before she can formulate a response, she feels a tugging at her palm, and the thread of gold snakes through her fingers and into Rum’s open palm. (And she can’t claim it doesn’t startle her, but it doesn’t send her into hysterics and it won’t haunt her nightmares, so she just smiles and tucks her hand under her arm.)

 He begins braiding the strands together, long fingers twining the gold into an intricate weave. “You know,” he says, voice low and eyes intent on his work, “I’ve always been fascinated by braiding.”

“Have you?” (She can’t say the same, until now. She can’t take her eyes off him.)

“It’s quite a marvellous invention, really. It takes separate things, and binds them together. It makes weak things strong. It takes lowly things and turns them into something beautiful.”

“Is that an analogy for something?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Merely an observation.” He ties off the braid and waves his hand, adding clasps to the end of the gold braid (with a tiny puff of blue smoke that smells like citrus and the earth after a storm). “And a necklace.” He stands, and holds it out with both hands. “May I?”

Her neck itches at the thought (and her cheeks flush), but she turns her back to him and she tries not to squirm when he pulls her hair over her shoulder with gentle hands. And metal settles against her collarbones (like a shackle but not like a shackle, because shackles are always cold and this is as warm as his hands), and he fastens the clip. They stand there for a long moment, his hand on her shoulders, and her back at his chest, and then he slides her hair back into place almost reverently and spins her around. 

She brushes her fingers across the chain and smiles up at him. “How does it look?”

“Beautiful,” he says. “Always.”

“Thank you,” she says.

“It was my absolute pleasure.” He stares at her for a long while, and then the corner of his mouth twists up. “Besides, I was under contract.”

“You still are,” she says. She slips around behind him and moves to the spinning wheel, gathering his jacket from the chair and his cane from the floor.

He turns to follow her movement, an awkward hop-shuffle-spin on his bad leg. “Am I, now?”

“Of course.” She hands him his cane. She folds his jacket over her arm, and smiles, and takes his hand and pulls him towards the stairs. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the cake. Contrary to popular belief, I have a very good memory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI PEEPS. Thanks for sticking with me, and sorry for the delay in posting. I fell behind and I've been scrambling to catch up ever since. I'm also rubbish at trying to write when my schedule is in flux, but my work schedule should be pretty consistent now, and I'll do my best to get back on track. 
> 
> Just so everyone has a heads up, I'm dividing the story into three parts. Part one is nearly finished-- it'll probably be done after two more chapters. So, after fifteen (or sixteen, if it runs long for some reason), I'm going to take a bit of a hiatus. I'll try not to make it too long, but I need to basically write a TON of chaps for the next part so I can get back to my weekly posting schedule. I hate having to write and post without any buffer, because it makes me panic and then I take even longer to get things done. So it'll be for the best! I'm sorry if it bums anyone out, but if it helps, I'll be writing prompts and stuff in the interim, so I won't leave you totally in the lurch. Anyway, thanks for following and reading, you're all fantabulous. I also WILL reply to stuff. It's just... I'm bad at it. I really am. So it might take me a while, but I WILL reply. Thank you so much for everything. I appreciate it more than I can express in a timely and coherent fashion. urawk.


	14. Chapter 14

Unlike Mister Gold, Jane does not have magic or experience to guide her through her dinner preparations. What she does have, however, is unlimited access to the library, grit determination, and insomnia. By two AM, she's experimented with five variations of chicken pot pie. (Three were tolerable but uninspiring, one imploded, and the other burned into a blackened husk.) By four AM, she's leafed through eight more cookbooks, and by five, she discovers the perfect recipe. She assembles the pie with intense concentration, cooks it half way, and tucks it into the fridge beside the spinach salad.

By eight, fuelled by five cups of tea and a full box of animal crackers, she finishes tidying the kitchen. She wanders into the living room with her sleeves rolled up and her elbows speckled with flour, and she opens all the curtains (because she's glad the night is over, because the nights are too long and too quiet and too lonely). She settles onto the sofa with  _Anne of Green Gables_ , bathed in sunlight and the sounds of life drifting in on the late-spring air.

And then she waits.

xxxx

She awakens to the sound of the doorbell. (Her heart beats a frantic military tattoo in her temples, commanding her limbs to a double-time scramble towards the door before she's even fully conscious.) He's here and she's fallen asleep (again), and nothing is ready (but at least she had the good sense to get changed before drifting off this time). She was apparently sleeping with her mouth open, and, after her third accidental nap, her throat is dry and she can hardly keep her eyes open. She feels like she's been gargling sand.

This whole insomnia routine is going to take some getting used to.

She stifles a yawn and pulls open the door.

Rum stands on the landing at the top of the stairs, looking rather dashing in a suit with a turquoise shirt, black tie, and a silver pocket square. He holds his cane halfway up the shaft (he apparently used the handle to push the doorbell and was preparing to do so again) and carries a long, thin box tucked under his arm.

"Hey," she says quietly, giving him a bleary smile.

"Hey," he says. He resettles his cane and leans on it. His eyes flick over her dishevelled appearance. "Am I early?"

She shakes her head. "I'm just running a bit late. Sorry. Come on in."

If he notices the state of her living room (couch cushions skewed,  _Anne of Green Gables_  lying on the floor where it had slid from her grip, glass of water still sitting on the glass coffee table), he doesn't say anything. He just follows her in silence, a few steps behind (and if he notices her occasional off-balance stumble-steps, he doesn't say anything about them either). She feels the need to explain, regardless.

"I fell asleep," she says, by way of apology. (Not drunk, she wants to assure him. Not insane. Not fraying at the edges or in need of desperate help. Just tired.)

He only says, "Oh?"

She's had a busy week. She's moved and cleaned and worked, and she has every right to be tired. It's true. But she can't hide the way her teeth pluck at her bottom lip, or the way she fists her hands around the bottom of her light blue cardigan, and so she doesn't try. She just smiles and gives a little shrug and says, "It's a new place. And I, uh, I haven't had many new places. It'll just take me a while to adjust."

(A whitewashed truth, stripped of fear and nightmares and the feeling of encroaching walls, but the truth nonetheless.)

He nods slowly and says, "Ah." Like it solves a few mysteries. (Like he was wondering but too polite to ask.) "Is there anything I can do?" he asks.

"You can make the salad?"

It's not what he means (and they both know it), but he smiles and nods. "Of course."

She moves over to the coffee table and places her (now lukewarm) cup of water onto a coaster. She tucks  _Anne of Green Gables_  back up onto the arm of the couch and gestures to the table. "You can leave your box here, if you want."

"I was planning on giving it to you, actually." The corner of his mouth twitches up and he sweeps the box out from under his arm, balancing it on one palm and holding it out to her, arm outstretched. "Here," and his voice is so quiet she can barely hear it across the few feet separating them, "If you'll have it."

"You know," she says, plucking the box from his arm after a brief hesitation, "you don't have to keep giving me things." (A hospital room, a library, a picnic lunch, a business contract.) She finds her free hand at her throat, tracing the braid of her gold-straw necklace, metal warmed by her body.

"I know. But I want to."

"Well, then I accept, of course." She clutches the box close. (It's light, like an offering of air and tissue paper, and tied with a single navy ribbon.) She dips a minute curtsey, and then slides the ribbon from the length of the box. Carefully, slowly, she lifts the lid.

And then snaps it shut.

"Thank you," she says, before she even realizes she's speaking. Her fingers begin to tremble, and she balls her hand into a fist to keep steady. "That's very thoughtful of you."

His brows crease, eyes flicking from the box up to her face (which must look like a wreck, for him to be so quiet and so still). He takes a single step forward. "Is something the matter?"

"No, of course not. It's lovely." She takes a steadying breath and opens the box again, trying not to stare at the object inside as she lowers it carefully onto the coffee table beside the glass of water. Trying not to catch her eyes on the single stem (thorns carefully clipped) or drag her gaze over the blood red petals (not yet open, but already on the path to decay because nothing lives forever).

A single rose.

And the sight of it threatens to shatter her like glass.

"I'll put it in a vase after dinner," she says. (She's a terrible liar, and he doesn't need false reasons and fake smiles, but she can hardly seem to give him anything else.)

He stares at her, and his face reflects the horror that twists her gut (and she's not doing a very good job of hiding her fear). He doesn't understand. Confusion and regret and concern all etched in the lines of his face, cloaked in the swirling darkness of his eyes.

She turns away without looking at him, (or the rose), and he follows her wordlessly into the kitchen.

She pulls the bowl of spinach and a container of vinaigrette from the fridge, then a package of almonds and dried cranberries from a cupboard, and a set of salad tongs from the drawer. She preheats the oven and begins to set the table while he moves to mix the salad (but the kitchen is narrow and they're too close, crammed too tightly together, and she can see the lines of tension in his back by the way his suit jacket creases, and she has to brush past him every time she needs a plate or a bowl or a spoon).

They work in silence for a long while, and when the oven is finished preheating, and the table is set, and the salad is finished and the wine is poured, she musters up the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry about—all that," she says. He doesn't ask, doesn't pry, but he sadness of his eyes weighs heavily on her shoulders, and the thin line of his mouth stings like a slap. She glances to the timer on the oven and watches the minutes begin their countdown from ten. "I don't like roses."

Rum picks a piece of spinach off the counter and drops it into the compost beneath the sink. The timer flicks down to nine.

"When I was in the basement," she finally says, (and 'the basement' sounds so much kinder than 'the asylum'), "Regina used to check up on me. She'd bring roses to the nurse. Every year, to mark the anniversary of when I was locked up, she'd bring roses for me too."

At the beginning, the flower was a welcome change. Brilliant red in a world of blue and grey, a touch of outside that reminded her of sunshine (she'd never seen) dappled against pavement stones, and a cool ocean breeze (she'd never heard) playing in the leaves of the trees, and freshly cut grass (she'd never smelled) on her father's front lawn (because her entire life was caught up in concrete and dripping overhead pipes and there was nowhere else but  _here_ ).

For a few short days, the rose was beautiful.

"Each year, I would tear a strip of cloth from my gown, soak it in water, and wrap it around the stem to keep the rose fresh as long as possible." She stares at the timer on the oven, only perfunctorily aware of how much her voice wavers, and how tightly she wrings the bottom of her cardigan between her fists. "But it would eventually die," she says quietly, "as everything does… and they would leave it. For a very, very long time."

For weeks. Maybe months. Until it was unrecognizable and black. Until it withered and died and festered – a pile of petals and a rotting stem in the corner, attracting flies, oozing a sickly-sweet-sour smell. (Until, after innumerable years, the sight of a fresh rose turned her stomach because it meant another year passed in a dank basement—because she'd learned that a rose was only black rot after all, given enough time.)

Perhaps she should offer him more information, attempt to express the horror gnawing in her chest, the years of watching any hope of escape wither away in the corner of her musty cell… but perhaps he understands already, because he looks at her with an aching expression and granite-edged eyes. (And she can see anger building behind the regret, tension in the stillness of his hands, the curl of his lip that bears his teeth.)

But when he speaks, his voice is soft. "I didn't know," he says, so quietly she can hardly hear him over the sound of the fan above the oven. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she says.

He grabs his cane off the chair and makes a move towards the living room. "I'll get rid of it."

She should let him, but she can't run from roses forever.( And making him dispose of it feels like she's blaming him, like it's somehow his responsibility—and it's not.) The pie is nearly cooked, and the rose is out of sight, and she's trying to work through her problems. And she'll be  _fine_. She reaches out to brush her hand over his jacket sleeve as he passes her, and when he looks (startled, like she came out of nowhere and ambushed him), she shakes her head.

"I'll take care of it later," she says. She curls her fingers tighter against his arm. "Stay, please."

He does.

When she takes the pie out of the oven, he helps her slice it into equal sixths. He pours white wine and she serves him salad, and the silence between them settles comfortably (except he can't quite meet her eyes, and she has to force a smile over the mask of her exhaustion). They look at the table and she praises the salad, and he praises the pie (and perhaps it's better that he glances more at the rose-infested living room than at her, because when he finally looks up from his plate, she feels like a stranger beneath his gaze).

She bears the scrutiny as long as she can.

Finally (and maybe because she's too tired, because her patience and self -control and bravery are all worn down to the nail beds), she sets her cutlery on the side of her plate and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin. She looks away from him, and stares at the floral tablecloth. "Are you always going to be like this?" she asks quietly. It's a sigh as much as a question. She doesn't entirely expect him to answer.

"Like what?"

She stares at the food on her plate and folds her hands on her lap. "Sad."

(Sad is an inadequate word. She's read dozens of books, maybe hundreds. She could have said sorrow, or misery or grief, or flipped through the dictionary-pages of her mind to find something better suited to describe the magnitude of anguish he tries to desperately to hide. But she chooses sad, because she's tired, and because it's easy, and… because it's true.)

At the accusation, he shifts in his chair. His eyes flick towards her when she looks up, intent and precise, and he takes a sip of wine. Long fingers curl neatly around the glass, giving the illusion of perfect control.

Jane meets his eyes. She doesn't flinch.

He might deny it, but he  _is_  grieving still. She can see it. A fog settles over his entire manner on days like this (on days where they aren't laughing or eating ice cream cones at Granny's). He pines after Belle like he's lost his favourite cane. He can straighten his shoulders and straighten his back, but he can't hide the limp. Can't hide the tightness in his mouth as he grasps at counters or the backs of chairs, holding onto anything and everything just to stay upright. Can't hide the misery in his eyes, as he stares at her and wishes she was someone he could lean on, just the same.

"You are allowed to miss her, you know," she says quietly.

"Thank you for that." He tilts his head and flashes a sudden smirk that feels like the crack of a whip. "But I don't need your permission."

She could be angry. (Because she's not Belle and he can't keep expecting that she'll magically return, he can't keep staring at her like she's some sort of obituary.) She could get to her feet and throw her napkin onto her plate and point at the door and get him  _out_ (leave him, like she left her father). She could be hurt, because his eyes are hard and his words are sharp and he's hiding from her, tucking himself beneath layers of pride to hide the wounds in his chest. She could turn away.

But she doesn't—because harsh words don't stick when he's been so patient with her for endless long months, when he's given her freedom and a library and a necklace spun from gold. So she takes a calculated sip of wine to match his, and presses her lips together.

He blinks. Heaves a short sigh. His fingers curl against the tabletop and he sets his wineglass down.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't apologize."

"I didn't mean to snap."

"Yes, you did."

"Well, I shouldn't have."

She shrugs.

"It's… not always easy," he says.

"I know." She looks down at her lap. She bites her lip gently and brushes a crumb from her skirt. "I miss her too, and I didn't even know her."

"She was a lovely woman," he says.

"I get that impression." She looks up.

His lips twitch up at the corners. "She reminds me a lot of you, actually."

She's not sure if it's meant to be a joke, but she laughs anyway, smiling despite herself and shaking her head. "I get that impression, too." (She feels like a consolation prize.)

He takes a heavy breath and lays his hand on the table, sliding it incrementally towards her. She doesn't offer her hands, and he doesn't move to take them. He just sits there, looking out of place and uncomfortable. He stares at her face, and she stares at his hand.

"I miss Belle," he says. It sounds like an admission. A confession. (Guilt.) "Maybe I always will."

She rubs her shoulder, palm against the flawless skin that should be a bullet hole.

His fingers twitch, she can see tension his knuckles. "But that doesn't mean I don't care for you too."

She forces a smile that twists at her lips but falls short of her eyes. "I know you do," she says.

"Do you?" His fingernails turn white where he presses down against the wooden table.

"Yes," she says.

"Jane." (His voice sounds like a plea.) "There's more to a person than their past."

Her gaze snaps to his face.

"And certainly, names are important," his lips twist up, ever so slightly, like he's just said something terrifically ironic, "but that isn't why I care about you. I love you," he says, pressing his lips together before continuing, sounding out the words like he's speaking a foreign language, "Jane French, in the present. Right now."

She stares at him.

He loves her. (And she knows he loves her, she's known for days, so she doesn't know why it's such a shock, or why the ground feels like it's dropping away from under her chair, or why she can't find any words amidst the tumbleweed of her thoughts.)

"Why?" she asks. "Why me?" For a long moment, he doesn't answer. She thinks he didn't hear (but his eyes are tight and his hand twitches again, and he looks just as startled as she feels).

"What—do you mean?" he asks, turning his hand palm-up and spreading his fingers like a localized shrug.

"I mean what I said. You say you love me. I want to know why."

(She wants to know if he loves Belle, if he feels obligated to her because he blames himself, if he loves her because she's the only one not running in fear from his magic and the glint of danger in the back of his gaze.)

"Because when I look at you," he says, "I see someone worth loving. Compassionate, inquisitive, generous. So very, very brave." An echo from a long-ago table in a now-familiar diner, when he was a stranger and she was so very alone. (And maybe things haven't changed much, because he still thinks she's brave and she still wonders if he's mistaken.)

"You make me sound like some sort of hero," she says.

"And who's to say you aren't?"

She shrugs. Stares at the hand he still holds out, ad her own hands folded neatly on her lap.

"I'm broken," she says.

"Chipped, maybe," he says, with a wry twist of his lips. "But hardly broken."

"You sound convinced."

"I'm something of an expert in these matters."

She smiles (and she can hardly see him through vision-blurring tears, because he sounds so hopeful and she wishes she could see herself through his eyes).

"You're the woman I love, Miss French. Since longer than you can remember. I doubt I could stop now, even if I wanted to."

She doesn't speak, but she reaches her hand up onto the table and laces his fingers with his.

(It's not a particularly heroic response, but from the way he smiles, she thinks it might just be enough.)

xxxx

They finish dinner in near silence, but comfortably, with small smiles and furtive touches and second helpings of chicken pot pie. He clears the dishes for her (despite protest that he is the guest, and she is the hostess), and she pulls a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer, and a box of cones from the cupboard, and asks him if he wants one scoop or two.

When they finish, she manages to keep him from the dishes (because it's only ten and, like the Robert Frost poem, she has miles to go before she sleeps). He takes his cane and his jacket from the back of the chair, and she walks him to the door. They skirt through the living room and down the stairs, through the quiet darkness of the library and out to the double-front doors.

They stand in silence, in the pale moonlight and pale streetlamp glow.

"I'll see you on Saturday," he says, finally, breaking the silence.

It's Wednesday night already, but the weekend seems suddenly distant.

"I hope so," she says.

He lingers by the door for what seems like an eternity, a  _War and Peace_  moment that stretches out far longer than it should. He doesn't want to go. (She doesn't want him to go.) She folds her hands over his (which are in turn folded over his cane, shifting and adjusting over the golden handle, only quiet when the pressure of her palms forces them still). They both wait for something.

She discovers what they're missing, and moves to fix it before she entirely recognizes the implications.

Very slowly, she reaches up to push a strand of hair from his face. (He leans into her touch.) She grasps at his lapels to keep herself steady, and pushes herself up onto tiptoes, and presses her lips to the extreme corner of his mouth. (He smiles, and she can feel the twitch of his skin under her mouth, the percussion of his heartbeat thudding through his jacket.)

"Thank you for coming," she says.

"My pleasure," he says.

Their voices sound loud in the empty lobby. She bites her lip and looks at the floor.

He raises a hand slowly (like it belongs on her cheek), but turns to push open the door instead. Cool night air wraps around her. The sound of crickets interrupt the silence.

"Goodnight," he says.

"Goodnight."

She locks the door and walks upstairs. She takes the steps slowly, (because she does not want to look at the coffee table, does not want to think about the rose lying lifeless in a cardboard coffin, does not want to face the empty apartment alone). But she can still smell his cologne and his hands are still warm from his jacket lapels, and maybe she'll be able to sleep if she attempts to read  _Anne of Green Gables_  just one more time.

After washing the dishes, she braves the living room to gather her book from the coffee table.

She tries to keep her gaze straight, focused on the paperback, away from the flowers and the memories and her too-tired fears. But she can't. Instinctively drawn to the white of the box, the corner of her vision catches a flash of unexpected colour.

She stares into the box, and places a hand to her mouth.

A bouquet bound with yellow ribbon, a healthy bunch of flowers, instead of a single stem. Yellow star-shaped pistils and tiny clustered petals. A colour like the cool breeze, like the summer sky and open seas.

The floral, earthy scent of the outdoors, and the purple smell of magic.

(Forget-Me-Nots.)

She slips the bouquet into a crystal vase on the kitchen table, and learns to bake peach cobbler until the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I have no excuses. Actually, not true - I have tons of excuses, but you all probably don't want to hear about them, so I'll spare you. the short version is work, more work, lots of work, change in work schedule, and also continuing adventures of coming down ill. Also, a ball hockey tournament. ANYWAY. thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chap and hope you'll continue to enjoy the ones in the future.
> 
> Just giving a bit of preemptive warning, I WILL be going on a scheduled hiatus after chapter 16. That'll be the end of part one of the story, so I'm going to take a hiatus to 1: give myself a break and write some different things and 2: write a bunch of chapters up ahead of time, so I don't go on accidental hiatus, like I have the last few weeks. Hopefully I'll be able to post a chap a week consistently, if I take the break on purpose. Soyeah. Thanks for all the support, and I will reply soon! (Another reason for the hiatus. haha.) Message me if you have any questions or comments and I'll do my best to reply. :)  
> A huge huge thanks to Antikryptonite for beta-ing, as usual. 
> 
> ALSO, midstorm on tumblr made me a lovely cover for the story. It's gorgeous and you should definitely check it out. 
> 
> http://midstorm.tumblr.com/post/53729269585/forget-me-not-by-roberre-you-cared-for-me-she


	15. Chapter 15

Jane sips her tea and stares across the couch at Leroy who slouches in his seat (and looks like he wishes his tea was something else). 

They’ve skipped small talk, because Leroy hates it and she finds it tedious (unless she’s with Rum). Instead, they’ve eased into the conversation by way of banana bread she baked at 3 AM—and since they’ve polished off half the plate, it seems safe to ease into conversation.

“Do you think it’s too early?” she finally asks, swirling her tea around in her mug and watching it spiral.

“Never,” he says, snatching another slice of banana bread from the plate. He breaks it in half and sets half of it on his knee, and dunks the other half into his tea before eating it.

She watches him for a moment, warming her hands against the heat of her mug, and then asks, “Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

“Nope.”

“Then… what were _you_ talking about?”

Leroy looks up, mouth twisting into something half-smile and half-smirk. “Scotch.”

She grins, and tries to hide behind her mug (but the aromatic steam drifts over her face and tickles her nose, and she’s sure he can see the amusement in her eyes, if not in the set of her mouth).

“Don’t suppose you got any.”

“Sorry, Leroy.” She manages to quell her smile and take a sip of tea. She lowers the cup onto the arm of the couch and gives a little shrug.

“Too bad,” he says. “Makes this kind of conversation go down a lot easier.” As if to demonstrate, he knocks back his tea, and sets the mug on the coffee table. She gestures to the pot, covered in a knitted tea cozy Granny had sent along as a ‘moving in’ gift, but he holds up his hand to wave away her offer. Instead, he picks up the half piece of banana bread still balancing on his knee.

She watches him eat (and he looks oddly expectant as he does, watching her back with eyebrows raised as he chews). She sips her tea, and he finally swallows. He picks up another piece of bread (he’s eaten a lot, but it’s good bread, and that’s what she made it for) and then settles back into his seat, shifting sideways so he can speak to her face-to-face along the length of the couch.

“So,” he says, “you wanna swing that one by me again?”

She does. But it had taken almost half an hour of not-small talk to build up to her question the first time around. And she wants to know, but she doesn’t want to ask again, (because the moment has turned into something light and frothy, with jokes of Scotch and hidden smiles, and if she asks she’ll only stir it into something thicker). Her bravery feels as deflated as a failed soufflé (she hasn’t made one yet, but she’s sure she will and she’s sure it will fail at least a couple of times), and so she takes a sip of tea and gives Leroy a shrug.

“Nevermind,” she says. “It’s not really important.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I—” She trails off and bites her lip.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself, sister. I’m ain’t gonna pry where I’m not wanted…” He pauses, grins at her. “…but you’re a terrible liar. You know that, right?”

“I haven’t had much practice,” she says.

“Well, if you’re gonna tell me, do yourself a favour and quit stallin’. If you’re not… well, it doesn’t make much difference to me. It’s your life.”

She knows he’ll drop the subject if she asks—he won’t pry—but she hasn’t chosen _not_ to ask him yet, and she he chews his banana bread with expectantly raised eyebrows and an impatient stare.

She sighs, and hides half her face behind her mug. “Relationships.” She says it like a weight off her back, because it’s an admission more than a statement. A burden she’s revealing to the bald and bearded man across the couch from her. “I want to know if it’s too soon to be thinking about a relationship.”

His eyebrows shoot up to the middle of his forehead (and if he hadn’t whipped his hat from his head the moment he walked in the door, she imagines they’d disappear under the brim). “Woah, you sure you want to be asking me this?”

She purses her lips and looks at the ground, heat rising up her neck. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you— I knew you’d react like this and—”

“Hey, sister, I ain’t reacting like anything. I just don’t think I’m the one to talk to. Good looks aside, I’m not exactly Casanova over here.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she says, reaching out to give the cushion beside him a tentative, comforting pat. (She doesn’t quite reach him, it’s not quite a touch, but it’s as close as she can manage and he seems to respect her attempt.) “I think you’re lovely.”

“Yeah, well, you just asked me about dating Gold. You’re in a pretty steep minority.”

She shrugs. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

He practically shoves the slice of banana bread into his mouth (and if he’s trying to keep her from noticing the way a blush creeps up his neck, over his face, and all the way to the top of his gleaming head—it doesn’t work). He swallows with some difficulty. Brushes a couple crumbs from his grey plaid shirt, he clears his throat and says, “Quit changing the subject. We were talking about you and… Gold.” The way he pauses does not entirely inspire confidence, but he’s not laughing and he’s not leaving and he’s not telling her what to do, so she can deal with it.

“You don’t like him,” she says.

“Not many people do.”

She can feel her expression slipping, sliding into careful neutrality. She pulls her hand back to her mug and takes a sip (her tea is nearly done, growing cold and running low).

“But hey,” he says, and he smiles enough to take the edge off his former words (to blunt the truth just a little), “this ain’t about me. _You_ obviously like him.” He smiles (a little lopsidedly) at her until she smiles back. “Tell me why.”

 “Well, he’s—he’s—uh—” And it feels a bit strange to be talking about Rum (because he’s so private, and so aloof from the town sometimes), but Leroy watches her without pressuring and she knows he’ll tell the truth (because he was one of the first, Leroy and Whale and Rum and Emma) and before she knows it her stuttering attempts knock loose a stream of words she can’t contain.

“He’s been very kind with me. And patient. Understanding. And sweet. We obviously cared for one another… before… but he’s never pushed. He’s been a gentleman. And he’s been honest with me, and he _tries_ , he tries so hard to pretend like he’s not heartbroken, but I know he is, and he still helps me anyways even though I’m sure he needs help just as badly. He’s very lonely, I think. Sometimes I can’t tell, there are a lot of layers to him and—” She stops, drains the rest of her tea, and sets her mug on the table. She runs her hands along her skirt to smooth the fabric over her knees. “And I think he really loves me.”

“Well… yeah.”

This is not the response she has been expecting.

“Yeah?” she repeats.

“Yeah. He loves you. Anyone with eyes can see that.” He says it like it’s so obvious (and she thinks maybe it has been, from the first day she saw him, shattered and trembling on rain slicked asphalt, dangerous and vengeful over the loss of _Belle_ ).

“They can?” she asks again.

“Jane,” Leroy says (and he says it like ‘sister’, with a shake of his head and a crooked-mouth smile), “the man ate _ice cream_ with you. In public. He gave you a library. It ain’t rocket science.”

She fights down a smile, but can’t keep the heat from rising in her cheeks.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not going to tell you there aren’t risks. I mean, you’ll be dating Mister Gold.” She gives him a look and he holds up his hands (but she can’t be angry because he probably does have a point). “But someone once told me that love is the most wonderful and amazing thing in the world. Love is hope. And if you’re in love… well, you’d better enjoy it while it lasts.” He looks at her and gives a shrug that disguises the earnestness of his words. “That’s a paraphrase, by the way.”

“How do I—” she pauses, biting down gently on her lower lip and pushing a lock of hair from her face. “How do I know if I love _him_?”

“Sister,” Leroy says, and he’s shaking his head again, like he can’t believe what he’s about to say, “you called him sweet. You’re in love.”

She wants to say more (ask a million questions, voice a million concerns, because how can she be in a relationship when she barely knows who Jane French is, and when he still may be in love with a woman who vanished months ago) but Leroy looks pleased, and she can’t stop thinking about the bouquet of forget-me-nots in the vase on the kitchen counter. And maybe her concerns are real… or maybe she’s just afraid to try. (To hope.)

“Thanks, Leroy,” she says.

He nods. And then yawns, covering his mouth with one hand and stretching his other arm out into the air above his head. “Well,” he says, when he gains control of the yawn and snaps his mouth shut with a click of teeth, “I’m on nights again.”

They both stand, and she fights a losing battle against the contagious yawn. She covers her face in both hands and spectacularly fails at keeping her jaw locked against it.

“I’d better get some sleep,” he says. “And by the looks of things, so should you.”

She offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “Right now that’s a bit easier said than done, I’m afraid.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you _should_ invest in some scotch. I got an extra bottle you can have, long as you promise to share.”

“That’s very generous of you,” she says (and it is, because Leroy will drink it far more than she, and she’s seen the price tags on the bottles in the store). “But I’m going down to the hospital later today to pick something up, so I think I’ll be okay.”

“Suit yourself.” She walks him to the door, and he picks up his vest and his grey woolen cap. “I’m just saying it’d go down a lot easier than a couple of horse pills, that’s all.”

 

xxxx

 

“Doctor Whale?”

His office door is slightly ajar, and it swings inward at her quiet knock. She pokes her head around stares into the cluttered interior. A figure dressed in white and blue-green scrubs stands in the corner of the office, back to the door and head bowed. She knocks again. “Viktor?”

This time, he looks up at the name. When he turns around, he holds a medical file open in his arms, a match to the dozen or so folders spread out over his desk. He looks momentarily startled to see her, but then his face smoothes into an easy smile and he snaps the file shut. (It says ‘Belle French’ with the ‘Belle’ crossed out and replaced with ‘Jane’, and she finds it unsettling to see her name staring back at her.)

“What can I do for you?” he asks. He flips the rest of the files closed and gathers them into a stack on the corner of the desk.

“I know you don’t usually work Thursdays, but Wanda at reception said you were in today…”

“Just catching up on some long overdue paperwork,” he says.

“Yeah, she mentioned that. She also said ‘it’s about time’.”

He smiles at the jab. She smiles at his smile.

 “So…” he spreads his hands, “… how can I help you?”

She finds it difficult to speak—more difficult than she had expected—more difficult than she’d expected considering this is _Doctor Whale_ , who has helped her through so many things (and it’s not like he’s never given her sleeping pills before). But it feels like failure to come crawling back after only a week alone (even though she knows there’s no failure in asking for help). And so she clears her throat and bites her lip (and watches his face change subtly as his eyebrows raise in expectation and then lower at her delay).

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” she says.

Whale’s mouth tightens, and he nods. He raises his hand to his chin and taps a finger against his lip. “What kind of trouble are we talking about?”

“The ‘I can’t sleep’ kind of trouble. The new place is nice,” she says quietly, easing herself into relevant information, “but it’s so quiet at night. I’m the only one there, all the shops are closed, there are no cars… and I tend to get nightmares. Knowing I’ll wake up terrified makes it difficult to fall asleep.”

“What do you dream about?”

“Lots of things. Sometimes it’s about the asylum, or the night on the road.”

He nods, encouraging her to continue.

She gives a half-shrug and crosses her arms over her clutch purse, pressing it to her chest. “A gun. Yelling. I get shot. Often it’s all mixed together. But it’s always dark, and I’m always alone, and that’s the worst part.”

“Alone? Mister Gold isn’t with you?” Whale looks distinctly surprised. His brow creases and he tilts his head slightly.

“No,” she says, startled. “Is that what everyone thinks? No, we’re not—we’re not together. We’re just…” She pauses, shifts her gaze to the ground for a second before answering. “…I don’t know what we are.”

“I thought he was your ‘True Love’.”

She laughs at the awkwardness in his tone (and it must be as uncomfortable for him as it was for Leroy, to think of Mister Gold in love). “Well, I don’t know if I’d say _that_. It’s a bit early to tell. But I can assure you he’s been a perfect gentleman.”

Whale looks momentarily skeptical (a flash of something like irritation in his eyes, for the briefest of seconds, and then covered behind kindness and concern). He gives a short shrug. “Well, I can prescribe you something that might help you sleep, but I’m not sure it will do much for the nightmares.”

“What will?”

“Time.” It’s not the answer she wanted. But at least he’s not giving her false hope. “In the short term, it may help to find a roommate, for your own peace of mind.”

A roommate. Where is she going to find a roommate. (She doesn’t even want a roommate.) Everyone she knows lives quite comfortable without her tagging along. Ruby’s busy learning to manage the inn and the diner, Emma barely has enough room to breathe in that tiny loft, with Mary Margaret and David and Henry all crammed into a single space, and she is _not_ moving in with Leroy. She supposes Mister Gold has spare rooms in his house... but she has a library to run, and she does not need a nanny.

Whale must notice her reluctance, because he gives her a warming smile and holds his hand out, palm up, and says, “There may be a second option.”

 “What is it?”

“You won’t like it.”

“I don’t like nightmares, either.”

“I’ve been talking to Doctor Hopper, and he suggested using a desensitization method.”

“I’m… not sure what you mean.”

“It means exposing you to something you fear, in a controlled environment, where we can replace the negative feelings with positive ones over time. Give you a good experience to lessen the fear, to show you there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Doctor Hopper and I thought it might be beneficial if you visited the line again.”

She tightens her arms over her clutch purse, and the corners of the little bag bite into her stomach and chest. She looks at the floor.

“It’s not as frightening as you think,” Whale says. “I’ll go with you. We’ll take things very slowly. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

(Dark pavement slick with rain, reflecting headlights and fireballs and anger and she doesn’t remember seeing the muzzle flash of a gun but she knows the street would reflect that too.)

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says.

“We’ll give it a positive association,” he says. “It’s classical conditioning. It will be less frightening each time you go.”

(Everyone yells and everything yells and _she_ yells because she doesn’t know where she is, and her shoulder hurts, and there are so many faces she’s never seen – including her own reflection in the dark glass of a police car window.)

“I’m not sure,” she says. She forces a smile and tries to expel her nervous energy, (but being back in the hospital isn’t helping, back with antiseptic and white lab coats and the smell of dead roses in the back of her mind). She doesn’t want to deal with all this. Not right now. Not with the library opening coming up. Not when she’s so tired.

“It’ll be good for you, Belle. It’ll bring closure.”

She blinks. A lead brick settles into her stomach and she stares at him.

( _Belle_.)

The name hangs between them for the briefest of seconds, like the afterimage of lightning just before the thunder.

“I’m not Belle,” she says, so quietly she can barely hear herself speak.

Whale’s brows crease for a moment—searching out his last few words – and then his eyes widen. “Jane,” he says quickly. “Jane, of course.” He rubs his jaw, shakes his head with a look of consternation. “Sorry,” he says. “Long day. You know how it is.”

She does know. (That’s why she’s here.) So she nods, smiles, shrugs a shoulder.

“About the line, Jane…” and he says her name with a smile, like a peace offering, a lure to bring her back on the topic she wants very much to avoid, “…it _will_ be good for you.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Trust me.”

She’s not sure. (She’s really, really, truly not sure, in the deepest sense where the very thought of it sends waves of chills curling around her spine.) But she does trust him.

“When?” she asks.

“Excellent,” he says, and he claps his hands together. (She’s his favourite amnesia patient, after all.) He gathers his files from his desk and opens a filing cabinet, sliding them inside. “It just so happens I’m free right now. Just let me tidy up. I’ll drive.”

She says it sounds good (although it sounds pretty far from ‘good’), and waits for Whale outside while he cleans and changes into civilian clothes. He exits a moment later, wearing a lavender shirt and a black tie, with a black blazer slung over his shoulder. Car keys clutched firmly in hand.

And so she holds onto her bravery and her most winning smile, and follows Whale out to the parking lot so she can change her life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing! Just so you know, I will be going on hiatus after the next chap. It won't be terribly long, and I will still be posting various oneshots and such (mostly on tumblr), but I just need the time so I can write up more chapters for you and get back to my once a week schedule. Sorry for the inconvenience, but hopefully it'll make the reading experience better in the long run! (I will also use the hiatus to reply to reviews. xD FINALLY.)
> 
> Also, I was both slow and impatient this week. Slow, because I JUST finished the chapter today, and impatient because now I'm posting it without sending it off to be beta'd by my magnificent friend AntiKryptonite. So if there are tons of mistakes, it's totally my fault and hopefully one day I'll learn to be patient and on time. Thanks to Beeinyourbonnet and Clockwork-Mockingbird for giving the chap a once-over to catch my typos and make sure it wasn't utterly horrible. 
> 
> Thanks again everyone!


	16. Chapter 16

Loose stones crunch beneath the tires of Viktor's silver Camry as he pulls onto the side of the road.

Orange spray paint slashes across the black asphalt, and she's glad it's sunny (because the darkness and the rain bring bullets and screaming), but part of her wishes it was dark (because at least then she could hide from Whale's patient, prying eyes).

"Are you ready?" he asks.

(No. Absolutely not. Not remotely.)

"Yes," she says.

"It'll help." Whale taps his fingers on the steering wheel and looks at her (like he wants to put his hand on her arm, like she's his friend and a glorified psychological experiment all at once). "Trust me."

"You said that already."

"And it's still true."

He gives her a smile, and she gives one back (though his is eager and hers is a wobbly-lipped, uncertain kind of smile).

"Alright," he says, as if the matter is settled. "I'll wait for you outside."

She follows a moment later (because the Camry is small, and her seatbelt is tight, and—even with the windows open—she can feel the walls press in around her). She can't sit here forever, and even an asphalt nightmare is better than a slow strangulation.

He slides on a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket, and together they walk towards the line.

Five paces. Ten paces.

"So this is where it happened?" Whale asks.

She doesn't know exactly where. (She doesn't remember the precise square metres of pavement where she lay, and the rain has long since erased any traces of her blood.) All the asphalt looks the same, dry and unthreatening in the high afternoon sun. "Yeah," she says.

"Does it still frighten you?"

She shrugs. The road is cracked and gravelly and just like every other road, but her mouth is dry and her palms are damp, so she nods. "Yeah."

"Tell me what you remember."

She already has (at least, she thinks she has), but talking is better than silence and so she begins with the beginning.

"I fell forward," she says, "into a man's chest. That's the first thing I remember. He grabbed my arms so tightly that he bruised me when he tried to hold me up. We landed on the pavement. My shoulder hurt. The stones cut into my palms."

He nods encouragingly and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. (She flinches, but neither of them pull away.)

She pieces together fragments of broken sentences in a feeble attempt to describe the disorientation of being born into chaos, of screaming and pain. A burst of purple magic and a fireball. (She'd left that part out of the story before, but Whale doesn't look surprised so he must know.) She talks of the pirate, the sheriff, the long ride back to the hospital with a wound that didn't hurt and didn't bleed and a mind filled with fragments of nothing but the asylum and rain. The terror that hasn't left. The terror that eats at the back of her mind every day, forcing her to fill her mind with happiness and her address book with friends and stay up all night baking chicken pot pie and banana bread instead of sleeping. Eventually, her words run dry.

In the silence that settles between them, the sound of tires crunching gravel crackles through the air like radio static.

A black car pulls up to the line… from the other side.

She stares at it. The tinted windows obscure the face within. "Who is that? Is that Doctor Hopper?" (She doesn't entirely believe it is.)

"If I told you, it would ruin the surprise."

"Viktor please," she says, smiling nervously to disguise up a sudden spike of panic, "what's going on?"

"It's alright, Jane. Nothing to worry about." His voice sounds cold and disinterested and his hand on her shoulder weighs as much as Atlas's globe.

The car door opens. A woman steps out. (It's impossible not to recognize her. Not to recognize the red lips and the dark hair, the expression of harshest amusement and eyes as black as the blouse she wears.)

Regina Mills crosses the line into Storybrooke with her hands tucked into the pockets of her slacks, and smiles. "Hello, Miss French."

For a moment, all Jane can do is stare. The air seems too thin (like the articles she's read in  _National Geographic_  about Everest or the Chilean mountains), as if the oxygen levels are too low and slowly starving out her brain. She swallows hard and takes a deep breath that leaves her head spinning. She tries to pull away, but Whale's hand tightens on her shoulder.

"What do you want?" She stares at Regina, turns to Whale. "What's going on? Why are you doing this?"

"My my, you ask a lot of questions." Whale smiles, thin-lipped. Something glints in his eyes. "Come with us, and we might even answer some of them."

She flinches away. His fingers find a tighter grip by digging into the muscle between her shoulder and her neck.

"No," she says.

Regina pulls her hands from her pockets. "Unfortunately for you, that wasn't a suggestion." (Jane has only heard her voice through steel doors and in nightmares, but she doesn't think she'll ever forget the way it sounds.) A flick of Regina's wrist (accompanied by splayed fingers and a cruel smile) and Jane's legs snap together. Invisible shackles curl around her wrist, pinning her arms to her side. A part of her wants to run, but another part of her knows this feeling, knows the futility (knows that there's nothing left to do but bide her time until an opportunity arises). She struggles, but Regina's magic lifts her off the ground until the toes of her nude pumps scuff against the pavement, and so she settles on glaring as menacingly as possible through the tears that sting her eyes.

Regina and Whale approach the line, dragging Jane behind them. Every few feet she tests the bonds, wiggles a little, but they don't give (and she earns herself an invisible cuff to the side of her head that leaves her ears ringing).

Regina stops just before the line. She lowers her hand slowly, and Jane's feet touch pavement. Whale, however, does not stop. He doesn't even break stride. He merely steps over the line and… shifts.

It happens instantaneously, as though Whale falls away (like a cast off cloak or a discarded newspaper) and a woman finishes his step. Inches of height vanish in the blink of an eye, curves impose and mannerisms alter. Blonde hair turns red.

The woman spins on her heels; her face is dominated by piercing black eyes and a smile that could chill the surface of the sun. Jane has no doubts as to the identity of this woman.

It's a nightmare. (It's real.)

She's asleep. (She's awake.)

"Cora," Jane says, barely able to hear her own voice over the sound of her thudding heart.

Cora folds her arms over her chest (red camisole peeking from beneath black blazer) and widens her smile.

Jane glances between Cora and Regina (and the resemblance between them is striking, despite Regina's dark hair). "What do you want with me?"

Cora laughs airily and tilts her head in a way that makes Jane feel like a child. "Oh, my dear, what makes you think we want anything with  _you_?"

"Well," she says, effecting confidence despite the quaver in her voice, "you are kidnapping me."

Cora's mild surprise (expressed in a single raised eyebrow and a few superfluous blinks) shifts into a more predatory expression. "Yes," she says. "We are."

Before she has the opportunity to reply, Jane feels strong hands on her shoulder blades. Cora gives a nod to Regina, the invisible shackles release, and Regina pushes Jane across the line.

Nothing happens.

Not the nothing of memory loss (vast empty darkness and swirling confusion), but the nothing of  _nothing,_  of no change, of no magic and no pain. Of nothing but a vague sense of shock the settles into anticlimactic numbness. (Heavy breathing and heart pounding and wide eyes looking up into Cora's satisfied face.)

"Fetch her bag," Cora says, looking over Jane's shoulder to talk to Regina. "And hide the car."

Regina goes.

"Rum knows you're here," Jane says. She hopes it sounds menacing. (She hopes it sounds like a threat.) "I'm supposed to meet him for breakfast tomorrow. He'll know I'm gone. He'll come find me."

"I'm counting on it."

Jane says nothing.

Cora continues, shifting her posture and clasping her hands in front of her, using the tone of a queen delivering a formal speech to an audience of peasants. "You see, when two people both want something the other has, a deal can always be struck." She pauses, and then shrugs slightly. "He has something we want… and now we have something he wants."

It's a trap. (Of course it is, of course it's a trap, because a magical dangerous pawnbroker means infinitely more than his amnesiac librarian girlfriend.)

"I'll warn him," Jane says. "I'll find a way. I'll sneak out in the night." She can contact him. Maybe she can get her phone.

"Regina said you were spirited… but not stupid. Try and run, and I'll have my daughter put bullets in both your knees."

"Go ahead," Jane says. Cora looks slightly surprised at Jane's answer. (Which makes sense, since Jane surprised herself.) She doesn't feel brave. Her hands shake and her voice trembles and she feels cold, despite the warmth of the afternoon. "I won't stop fighting."

"Apparently not."

"I'll get away. Or I'll die." (She's not brave, but hope is the only thing she has left, and she wants to spit in this horrid woman's face). "Either way, you'll have nothing."

Cora makes a short 'hmm' of disapproval in the back of her throat.

At the sound of footsteps, Jane turns to see Regina cross the line, carrying Jane's purse tucked under her arm. A second glance reveals no sign of Whale's car in the distance. Likely either hidden or removed by magic.

"Is she always this much trouble?" Cora asks her daughter.

"Not always," Regina says. "But the short answer is 'more or less'."

"A change of tactics, then." She turns back to Jane. "If you escape,  _Rum_  might be able to protect you, it's true." She says  _Rum_  like it's the punch line to a joke, with derision and a smile. "But he can't protect everyone." It's not a subtle threat. Cora makes it even less subtle by continuing. "If you make our lives difficult, we will return the favour, starting with Doctor Whale and ending with Miss Swan. On the other hand, come along willingly, and we'll have no reason to involve the citizens of Storybrooke."

She should run. Now. She's not tied up and she should run. (There's no magic over the town line—she knows, Rum told her—but they'll snatch her up the moment she steps back over the boundary.) She could take off into the woods, but she has no food and no water and no map, and no way to warn the town.

No way to save Doctor Whale (who called her 'Jane' when 'Belle' was still an open wound). Or Ruby (who gives her iced tea and smiles even when Granny glares at her lunch dates). Or Leroy (who drinks Scotch and everything else in sight, but still has time to talk of love and gentle things). Or Emma (who tells the truth and tries hard to make sense of a senseless world).

Unless she stays. And then (just maybe) she can save them all.

"I accept," she says, "if you promise not to harm them."

"I promise," Cora says, and Jane doesn't believe her in the least.

xxxx

There is only  _here_. (There is nothing else because she is here and this is all there is and all there will ever be.)

But she is here because, in some small way, she chose to be here. (Because her friends deserve a chance to live and maybe Belle would do the same thing and maybe Belle would be proud.) And so she carries herself like a princess, like an unbreakable spirit, when they move her from the car to an abandoned cabin far outside Storybrooke. When they chain her to a radiator with only a thin scrap of blanket and a tin of cold soup (and it gets so cold, and when it begins to rain the floor leaks). But she doesn't scream. And she doesn't cry.

She waits.

She is here. (She has always been here.)

But it is temporary. (She will always be here.)

Rum will save her (or she will save herself) and she'll have her chance at life (at love) again, and she'll open the library and live out the rest of her days in a pink house where magic is real and a man with brown eyes and a fireball will guard the front door.

Unless maybe everything was a lie and a figment of her imagination, and maybe she's back in the asylum and maybe she invented Emma and Ruby and Mister Gold (the same way as she imagined that man in the red-dragon coat with the scales and the funny laughter, such a very long long long time ago).

Or maybe this is real.

And if this is real, maybe they've done her a favour.

Because, despite months of learning and living (and love), she didn't know who Jane French truly was.

And now she does.

(Jane French is a hero.)

And Belle (jingle bells and cow bells and the resounding music of church bells from a great cathedral) would be proud.

 

End of Part One: Blank Slates and Blue Eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks so much for reading. Sorry this is a day late—the chapter was giving me a bit of drama. A huge thanks to Bee (beeinyourbonnet on tumblr), Clockwork-Mockingbird, and of course, Anti-Kryptonite for helping me solve the problems. They're the best. You should read their stuff while I am… ON HIATUS! WHOO! –throws confetti-
> 
> It's probably less exciting for you, to be honest. But I'm pumped. My to do list includes: writing new chapters of this (so that I have a buffer and don't stress out every time I'm late), rewatching some eps of OUAT (I've seen season two only once through and I really could use a refresher on some of the characters), finishing filling prompts (that I took in April and then never got to finish), working on my next Rumbelle story for when FMN is done, and replying to PMs and reviews! Hopefully I get all that done. It's a pretty ambitious hiatus, but I'm pretty determined. Haha. I honestly don't know exactly how long it will last, but when I DO come back, I'll have the next part of the story (likely 10-15 chapters again) updating every single week. And you'll all be replied to, if you review. Haha.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much. This is the end of part one. Next time we'll begin part two, which is from Emma's POV, and entitled 'Loopholes and Legalities'. I love you all and will see you soon. In the meantime, if you want, you can follow me on tumblr (roberre) or send me messages if you feel like keeping in touch. I'd love to hear from you. THANKS AGAIN.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to firefreezing, realmythology, ouatauburngirl, and nowinlivingcolor for volunteering to beta the chap. Thanks to everyone else who volunteered to help out too! I appreciate it every much. Anyway, without further ado...
> 
> Part Two: Legalities and Loopholes

Emma tells herself she’s not late.

It’s partially true. She sets her own hours (even though the plaque on the front door reads ‘Office Hours: 9-5’). She keeps up with her paperwork (except for the last few days). And no one ever, ever comes to the office before ten (... usually). She does night shifts and afternoon patrols and morning runs for coffee, leaving the office empty all the while. She redirects calls straight to her and David’s cellphones-- so if anyone needs anything, even if she isn’t in the office right at the stroke of nine, all they need to do is call.

And so, by that reasoning, she’s not late when she pulls into the ‘Reserved for Sheriff’ parking space at nine-fifteen. She steps out of the car with her keys in one hand and a travel mug of over-sweet coffee in the other, an orange tucked under her chin and a file folder under her arm.

And she nearly drops it all onto the pavement when she rounds the corner to the front door and sees Gold standing on the concrete steps. 

“You’re late,” he says.

Managing to recover her composure (and her tenuous grip on the orange), Emma pushes past him and makes her way to the door. Without looking at him, she fumbles with the keys and unlocks the door. “And waiting outside my office at nine AM isn’t creepy at all.”

“I need to talk to you.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “If you’ve been robbed again, I would seriously suggest investing in a better security system.”

He glares at her.

She pushes open the door and holds it open with an elbow.

They walk inside, and he follows her to the glass-walled cubby of her office. She drops her coffee, orange, keys, and file all on her desk, and then hangs her jacket on the coat rack in the corner.

“So,” she asks, leaning against her desk, “what’s this about?”

“Jane didn’t come to breakfast.” He leans heavily on his cane and watches her face for a reaction.

Emma arches a brow. “Last time I checked, it’s not a crime to stand you up on a date.”

“No. But kidnapping is.”

She tries to keep the disbelief from her voice, but it’s not entirely effective. “You really think she’s been kidnapped?”

He straightens his posture and rolls his shoulder in a way that gives the impression of being both dismissive and agitated. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

“Hey, it’s a valid question. How do you know she didn’t just sleep in or something?”

His hands twist over the handle of his cane. “We were supposed to go out for breakfast this morning. When I went to pick her up at her apartment, there was no answer. I knocked on the door and telephoned. When I went inside, her bed hadn’t been slept in and there were no dinner or breakfast dishes.”

“You broke into her apartment?”

“I have a key.” She must have given him a look, because he rolls his eyes and clarifies. “She gave me a key.”

Emma isn’t entirely sure if she believes him—but he can take it up with Jane. When they find her. She taps her fingers against the edge of the desk. “So… you think it’s Cora, then.”

“Of course it’s Cora.”

“And why would Cora want to kidnap your girlfriend?”

“Oh, I’m sure she has her reasons. I doubt we’ll have long to wait before she tells us exactly why.”

Something in his voice sets a chill in her bones.

He turns his gaze to her, patient and nearly unmoving, and waits for a response. With the way her senses are suddenly running into overdrive, she can hear the creak of Gold’s shoes as he shifts almost imperceptibly in place. (Everything about him feels too sharp when he stares at her like that, like he’s fashioned out of razorblades lashed together by violence.)

She pushes a strand of hair from her face and forces herself to relax, to keep her posture loose and her mind open. She grabs her orange off the table to distract herself from the intensity of his gaze. “Look, Gold. Of course I want her to be safe, but…”

Gold’s mouth tightens at her words. His nostrils flare with barely concealed anger, knuckles white against the gold handle of his cane. 

Emma shrugs. She rolls the fruit between her hands, running her thumbs along the rough skin. She takes a deep breath. “It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet. Have you ever considered that maybe she just went out for a walk?”

“Have you ever considered doing your job?” He nearly snarls the word. It sounds like a threat unto itself. "Part of which, coincidently, involves finding missing persons.”

“I am doing my job. And, coincidently, it does not include playing babysitter for you.” Emma lifts her hands in a wide shrug, orange tucked between her knees to keep it from rolling along the desk. “This is a novel idea, but maybe she just needed some space.”

“Oh right, some space.” He nods, a sarcastic smile and a cruel flourish of his hand. “Without breakfast, the day before her library opens, without telling anyone where she is. That makes perfect sense.”

She lets her hands smack loudly down on her lap, nearly knocking the orange from between her knees. “Gold, give it a rest. Why does everything always have to be Cora?”

“Because everything usually is.”

“No, actually, everything is usually you.”

He seems to jerk without actually moving much at all. Shift, with a change in the air like window suddenly breaking. He transforms into something unsettling with a blink, with a twitch of his head, with the tension in his jaw. With the fact that he’s no taller than her, and looks no different than he always has, but suddenly feels like a giant. (When he speaks, she half expects to see claws and pointy teeth—which is ridiculous. But that’s how the man makes her feel.)

“Don’t play games with me, Sheriff.”

She gives a wry smile. “I thought you liked games.”

His lips peel back to bare teeth. “Not today.”

Emma knows she’s pushed too many buttons. Usually he pushes back. (Today he just wants to hit things.)

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she wants to push and poke and needle him even more. Until she draws tiny pinpricks of blood—not enough to wound him, but just enough to pay him back for the hundred times he’s come out on top and left her standing in his dust like an idiot. Enough for the manipulation and the laughter. Enough for her to win at his game, just once.

But Emma knows where to draw the line—she’s learned from experience, even though she sometimes toes said line. And so she holds up her hands in front of herself in defense. “Hey, easy,” she says, trying to defuse some of the tension. Her voice strains a bit too hard to sound calm. “She’s my friend too.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek when she speaks, a flash of disbelief. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to break something. (Maybe not her, but the glass window behind her would be defenseless against the heft of a gold handled cane.) She can almost feel magic blazing around him, skittering over her skin like spiders made of electricity and dread. 

His hands tighten on his cane (stronger than they look, surprisingly strong, pulling them back from Moe or slamming them in irons or watching them conjure up spells and glowing potions).

Mustering up enough defiance to meet his eyes, she takes a steady breath and tries not to crush the life out of her orange.

Gold stares back at her with an intensity typically devoted to sports matches or accidents on the side of the freeway.

Silence lapses between them, broken only by the hum of the AC spewing arctic air directly onto the back of her neck. Slowly, she picks up the slightly-squashed orange from between her knees and tosses it from one hand to another. Catches it, tosses it, catches it, tosses it—barely looking as she does. Instead, she watches him with her eyes narrowed, trying to read the seething impatience beneath the calm exterior. 

Finally, Gold looks away. “Either you’ll help me, or you won’t,” he says softly. “Which is it?”

She breathes a heavy sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find Belle.”

Emma blinks. She nearly drops the orange. “She’s not Belle.”

Gold lifts a hand from his cane and throws it up in a gesture of agitation, though the action doesn’t have any real violence behind it. “At this point, I don’t care if she’s calling herself bloody Marie Antoinette. I just want her found.” He sounds… defeated. She doesn’t want to needle him anymore. Well, not much.

She realizes he’d been putting on an act... A brave face, masking fear with violence. (Violence or indifference—it’s all the same, and she recognizes the exhaustion that comes with the hiding). Now he looks bowed. Weary. He looks more terrified than she’d ever seen him.

She thinks of Cora, and Regina, of the ominous stillness of their movements. Of Jane, alone and shaking.

“Okay,” she says. 

Gold visibly relaxes.

Emma eases herself off the desk and snatches her coat from the rack. “I’ll ask around and let you know.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. The dark circles under his eyes make him look very pale. (His brown eyes look sad.)

“Thank me when we find her,” Emma says, and leaves.

 

xxxx

 

She sits in her bug, parked by the curb with the windows rolled down, and stares out over the ocean.

From what she can tell, Jane isn’t here. Or at Granny’s. Or with Ruby, or Leroy, or at the library, or her apartment, or in the garden. (From what she can tell, Mister Gold might be right.) But it’s too early to know anything for certain, so she’ll keep looking.

She pulls her phone from her back pocket, wriggling a little in her seat to reach, and dials David’s number.

When he picks up, she can hear immediately that he’s at lunch. The clink of glasses and plates and the murmur of customers, punctuated by Granny’s occasional shouts to the cook, tell Emma exactly where. “David, hey, it’s Emma.”

“Hey, Emma. How’s it going?”

“No luck.”

“Did you check the hospital?” David asks.

“Heading there next,” Emma says. “Did you have the chance to talk to Mary Margaret?”

Mary Margaret’s class had been commissioned by Jane several weeks ago to make the banner for the library grand opening. Mary Margaret had assigned each child the task of creating letters. Last time Emma had seen it, the banner had read, ‘St-ybr--ke Publ-- Li-ary: GRAND ---NING!’ in a total jumble of colours and glitter and glue and streamers and patterns.

“Yeah,” David replies. “I talked to her about an hour ago. The kids were supposed to go hang the banner today, but Mary couldn’t get into the library. She said she tried to call, but no answer.”

“Weird.”

“You can say that again.” He pauses, and Emma hears him take a sip of his drink . “So… what are you thinking?”

Emma shrugs. “I’m thinking maybe the paperwork can wait. Can you give me a hand instead?”

“Sure. Where do you want me?”

Emma looks at the crude list she’d lashed to her dashboard. In order of likelihood, she’d scrawled locations onto sticky notes and stuck them to the interior of her car. As she searched each, she threw them to the passenger side floor. By now, there’s a small pile of discarded yellow papers crumpled on the floormat, and five left stuck to her car. “I’m searching all the usual spots,” she says, “but maybe you can check out some of the unusual ones. The Rabbit Hole, maybe. The drug store. Just start asking around town.”

“I’ll start with Moe,” David says.

“I doubt she’s there. He doesn’t seem like the repeat offender type.”

“I don’t think so either. But he should know.” David pauses to take another sip of his drink and then adds, “He is her father.”

Emma responds with a noncommittal grunt. She is more concerned with what Moe might tell them than with what they will tell Moe, but it’s as good an idea as any. “Sure. Sounds good. Check in with me if you find anything. I’ll do the same.”

“And if we don’t find anything?”

Emma starts her car and refastens her seatbelt. “I’ll talk to you in an hour.” She hangs up, tosses her phone onto the seat beside her, and pulls onto the street.

(Mister Gold might be right, but there’s no way she’s going to admit it until absolutely necessary.)


	18. Chapter 18

 

When Emma pulls up to Doctor Whale’s house, Gold stands outside, waiting.

He wears his regular suit jacket despite the climbing temperatures, a dangerously red tie, and a pair of round John Lennon sunglasses. He leans on his cane and stares intently at her.

(He really is extremely creepy sometimes.)

She parks in the driveway because Whale’s car is nowhere to be seen, and climbs out onto the asphalt. Heat swirls heat around her dark jeans, and she leaves her jacket in the car. “That was quick,” she says.  She’d called him less than five minutes ago, directly from the hospital, as soon as she found out that Jane had gone to see Doctor Whale.

He doesn’t acknowledge her comment in the least. “There’s a barrier spell on the house,” he says. “And it’s extremely strong.”

 Emma shades her eyes from the sun and looks at the house. It looks squat and quiet and utterly uninteresting. She shoves her hands into her pockets. “Can you break it?”

Even behind his dark sunglasses, she can see the incredulity on his face. He looks as if she just asked if he could convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. And then he laughs. (It’s more of a chuckle, really, an ‘ohohohoho’ like Santa Claus with all the jolly sucked right out of him, and a glint of a gold-toothed smile.) She’s not sure if he’s trying to be patronizing or if it’s just habit. “Of course I can,” he says. “And you can help me.”

“Lucky me.”

He turns from the driveway without another word and follows the stone walkway up to the front door. She sighs her exasperation (though he ignores her and she hadn’t expected anything different) and trails after him.

She narrows her eyes and peers at it, rooting around in looking for a sign of the magic Gold claims. Her head pulses with the feeling she always gets before more-or-less-accidentally performing magic, but as far as she can tell, everything looks normal.  A pair of rubber overshoes beside the front door (which is painted maroon, for some inexplicable reason);  a woven reed doormat; a doorbell that glows orange so it can be seen in the dark; a bronze number ‘65’ screwed into the brick; a slightly soggy newspaper in a blue-tinted plastic bag. No sign of foul play or magical hullaballoo.

Gold, apparently noticing her perplexity, picks a tiny pebble up from the concrete stoop and tosses it underhand at the front door. The air shimmers, like the surface of a soap bubble, and then spits the stone out so violently that it flies across the street and buries itself in the trunk of a tree.  She stares at the hole in the tree, and then looks back at him. She’s suddenly glad she didn’t decide to knock.

He smiles sanguinely.

She watches the soap-bubble magic fades back into invisibility. “So… can you fix it?”

“Of course I can.”

“And how does this involve me?”

“Well, I could spend several hours unravelling this complex weave of magical ties…” He looks directly at her. “Or we kick the door down together, so to speak.” He turns from the door to her, still smiling, like she’s the town’s resident door-ramming expert. (She probably is.) “I hope you appreciate the indelicacy.”

She does. But she knows he expects her to, so she shrugs indifferently, just to deny him the satisfaction.

“What do I have to do?” she asks.

Gold holds out his hand to her.

She stares at it. “You’re kidding.”

He isn’t.

She sighs. After glaring at him as long as she can manage without coming across as petulant, (bristling at the amused curl of his lips and the glint in his eyes), Emma gently lowers her hand into his. Palm to palm. Her skin against his.

He closes his fingers and smiles again. “Don’t think,” he says, carefully guiding their clasped hands towards the door. “Feel it. Remember what I said: Magic is emotion.”

“Yeah yeah, okay.”

But it’s hard _not_ to think, when his fingers bite into the back of her hand. When the faint smell of expensive cologne surrounds her (because she’s so close to him she can smell him, which is a whole new experience she does not particularly want to replicate ever again). When the blood pounds through her wrist so hard that she thinks he can feel her pulse.

She thinks maybe her palms are sweaty and maybe he’s disgusted.

She thinks she’s overheard Mary Margaret talking about how Rumplestiltskin used to have _scales_ , and maybe they’re still there, lurking underneath dress-shirt cuffs and skin.

She thinks they might be thrown back by the spell into oncoming traffic the moment they touch the barrier.

She deliberately does _not_ think about the pleasant buzz of power beneath her breastbone, or the way the warmth of magic swee[s over her entire body and sears her down to the bones.

Instead, she closes her eyes and tries to concentrate.

Goosebumps ripple up her arms. A breeze whips around their feet and spirals dust (so grey it looks almost blue, catching the sunlight until it glows like bits of glass) around them.  Slowly, he pushes their hands further towards the house. A pressure builds around her fingers, a viscous feeling like she’s trying to reach through Jell-O instead of air. She can feel… something between them, like the tension before a storm when the wind picks up and everything grows cold. The only warmth sparks between their palms, burning.

She opens her eyes just in time to see (and feel) their hands come to rest against the maroon door.

The stormy tension pops like a burst soap bubble. The wind drops. The sounds of the day (distant cars and rustling leaves and birds) resume their chorus. Gold releases her hand, and turns the doorknob.

 “That’s it?” she asks. She’s panting slightly, she realizes. She wipes her palms on her jeans and shoves her hands back into her pockets with renewed vigour.

“What did you expect? A round of applause?” He pushes on the door with the end of his cane, and it swings open easily.

Emma peers inside. As her eyes adjust, shapes solidify from the dim interior, revealing chaos. The storage bench upended, scarves and gloves strewn across the tiny foyer. The remnants of a newspaper scattered across the floor. The coat rack fallen, a mishmash of clothes. A dented aluminum baseball bat and several golf clubs. No fewer than six different pairs of shoes.

She stares down the cluttered hallway and regrets leaving her gun in the glovebox of her bug.

Before she has a chance to rectify the situation, Rumplestiltskin swats a shoe away with the end of his cane and steps inside the house.  “Whenever you’re ready, Sherriff,” he says, voice reverberating hollowly around Whale’s cluttered foyer.

 Her hand twitches –her fingers slide to the badge on her belt, her thumb traces the worn leather where the holster would sit – and she steps inside after him. (Rumplestiltskin’s likely the best weapon in the town… and honestly, bad things tend to happen when he’s left to his own devices.) They pick their way over the wreckage. Emma gingerly climbs over the coat rack and snatches a nine iron from the floor, just in case.  She’s tried to play by the books since becoming Sheriff—more or less, for Henry’s sake— but she’s pretty sure there’s a sub-sub-sub clause somewhere in the town charter that permits her to rough Cora up with a golf club before tossing her into prison for ten lifetimes. 

Despite the spell, the signs of struggle, and their own footsteps, quiet coats the house like dust on Gold’s antiques. The fridge hums and an analog clock counts each second with an overloud ticking that seems to stretch for miles. No Whale, and no Cora. Nothing and no one as Emma follows Gold into the study, the library, the linen closet, the small bathroom.

Nobody in the basement either, which genuinely surprises her. In the basement she grips the golf club in both hands, searching behind homemade laboratory equipment and ignoring Gold’s condescending smirk.

Then they climb the stairs at a half-time march, though Emma would rather jog, and ascend from the basement to the top floor. From concrete and pipes, over the disaster of the front foyer, up to a second-floor hallway done up in whites and light greys. Except for light-wood baseboard trim, the hallway presents unbroken sterility broken only by occasional oil paintings hung on the blank walls. (It looks like the hospital.)

And, at the end of the hallway, through the last doorway on the right, rippling lights spill onto the pale carpet. Blue, and green, and peach, and blue and green again.

For the first time since entering the house, Emma pushes past Gold. Feet nearly silent on the carpet, she slinks along the wall to reach the open door with the golf club raised. Gold may be the best weapon in town, with his magic smoke powers and fireball hands, but he doesn’t have a monopoly on blunt force trauma.

The door stands half open already, providing cover while allowing her to peer inside. Her first glance reveals surprisingly modern décor—the walls painted various shades of grey with accents of navy, the furniture and black-painted shelves immaculately organized, the furniture bold and eye-catching and looking straight out of an Ikea catalogue. A figure, spread-eagle, lies on the bed. A quick glance says he’s breathing steadily.

Whale.

 She pushes through the door, club still raised, leaving her cover for a more thorough view. She sweeps the corners (an absence of Cora) and realizes with a flash of frustration that the captivating lights were nothing but reflections from the flatscreen tv on the wall closest to the door.  She pokes her head into the closet and the en suite bathroom.

Gold steps into the room. She nearly jumps, startled by his silent entrance.

“No sign of Cora,” she says, and tosses her club irritably against the far wall.

“I gathered as much by the fact you’re still alive.” He looks no more irritated at the lack of Cora than he would if he’d stepped in a puddle and splashed mud on his shoe. Only the tightness at his mouth and the skittish way his eyes search the room hint at anything but complete indifference.

“Looks like she took Whale out of commission before she left, though.” Emma takes two steps towards him, watching his chest rise and fall. He’s wearing his clothes—black pants, a lavender dress shirt, and a paisley tie worn loose. He has at least a day of blonde stubble on his cheeks, and dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept a week.

Gold limps to the bedside, opposite from Emma, and stares down at Whale. He holds his hand a few inches from Whale’s face and waves it back and forth over his eyes, slowly. Sensing something, maybe. Reading the spell.

Emma crosses her arms. “I just hope he doesn’t need True Love’s Kiss or whatever, because he’s not getting it from me.”

Gold stares at her a long moment. He raises an eyebrow.  And, without looking away from Emma, smacks Whale sharply on the cheek.

Whale’s eyes open and he shoots up into a sitting position with a cry of surprise and pain. He claps a hand to his face and scrambles back, shoving his blankets off the bed in his haste to escape. Pressing himself against his headboard, he gapes at them, chest heaving, eyes wide. He blinks, slowly, and his surprise fades into a more horrified brand of shock.

“Sheriff, I—what are you— why is _he_ in my room?”

Emma ignores Gold’s satisfied smirk (how was she supposed to know the man was only sleeping?) and turns to Whale. “We’re looking for Jane.”

Whale’s voice breaks. “In my bedroom?”  He licks his lips and turns to Gold, holding his hands up as if to ward off a blow. “Hey, listen—she’s a great gal but I swear I _never_ —”

Baring his teeth, Gold hefts his cane. He holds it by the shaft, the golden handle hovering dangerously level with Whale’s face. “Not like that,” he says. “Cora has her.”

The knot in Whale’s brow loosens. Recognition alights in his eyes. He glances nervously at the cane.

“And if you have anything to do with this—” Gold smiles, though he looks like he might burn Whale to a crisp at any moment, “—I am going to repossess your arm.” He taps his cane lightly against Whale’s shoulder. “Now, do you have anything to say?”

Whale’s mouth works soundlessly, and then he clears his throat. “Can we possibly talk outside?” Swallowing hard, he gently pushes Gold’s cane away from his shoulder. “I’ve been trapped in here since Wednesday night and I could really use some fresh air.”

                                                                                                                                                                  

xxxx

 

Emma sits on Whale’s front steps, shading her eyes from the sun, and watches David step from the squad car onto the front lawn.  He wears a gun belt over a blue dress shirt and looks much more like a sheriff than she does, though she’d never admit it in a million years. He carries a paper bag in his hand and calls a greeting as soon as he comes within earshot.

She waves back, forcing a smile through the wave of drowsiness that batters her. She doesn’t stand up to greet him. At the moment, she feels heavy as a lighthouse rock, and about as motivated to move.

“Where’s Whale?” he asks, stepping from the lawn onto the brick walkway that leads to the front stoop.

“Hospital. The paramedics nearly had to tie him down, but he went.”

“And Gold?”

“He _said_ he was going to run some more tracking spells.” She shrugs helplessly. “But who really knows with that man?”

David smiles and nods. He eases down beside her on the steps, smiling in that oddly paternal way (and she can never decide if her skin prickles because it’s patronizing… or because nobody’s ever looked at her that way before).  He seems to catch her hesitance, and shifts his gaze to the paper bag in his hand. He holds it out to her. “I brought you lunch,” he says.

“Thanks?” she says. It’s nearly half past four, more supper than lunch— but she hasn’t eaten since finishing her orange around eleven and she’s not going to argue over semantics. She upends the contents of the bag onto her lap—a Styrofoam container from Granny’s containing a pastrami sandwich and a mountain of fries, a can of root beer and a stack of napkins.

He watches her tuck into a massive bite of her sandwich and says, “I’ll make you something for tomorrow, if you want.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Her words come out muffled through a mouthful of pastrami. She swallows and swabs her mouth with a napkin. “I am an adult, you know.”

He ignores her protest and smiles again. “I’ll leave it in the fridge and mark it so Henry doesn’t eat it on you.”

“Good idea. That kid is like a garbage disposal.”

David quirks an eyebrow. “I wonder where he gets it from.”

She levels a look at him, though it loses some of its sting when she tosses a salty fry into her mouth and returns to chewing. 

“Whale’s story checks out.”

Emma sips her root beer and nods. She’s glad one of them remembered the reason for his appearance. One bite of food, and her hunger had steamrolled all semblance of priority. “I figured it would.”

When the good doctor had stopped soaking up the sun like a bear just out of hibernation, Whale had told Gold and Emma his story. He’d apparently woken up on Thursday morning to find himself trapped. The disarray at the front was caused by his initial attempts to break his way through. Unable to open the doors, open the windows, use the telephones, or call for help, he’d settled into a routine resembling life. They’d caught him napping after a fresh two hours of attempted escape.

“So it’s definitely Cora, then?” David’s question doesn’t sound much like a question.

“A barrier spell? A fake Doctor Whale who kidnaps Gold’s girlfriend and then vanishes into thin air? I think I’m going to have to admit that Gold was right.” She frowns and looks to David out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

He holds up his hands. “Scout’s honour.”

Emma doesn’t typically put much stock into such promises. But she’d trust David whether he pinky swore or pledged his allegiance or just plain shrugged and said ‘okay, Emma’. She’s not used to it yet. Trusting someone feels a little like balancing on a highwire or running from the law—one misstep could send her sprawling—but she thinks she’ll acclimatize in time.

“Are you any closer to finding her?”

Emma shrugs.

So far, nearly eight hours of searching, interviewing, phoning, scouting, magic-spell-ing, and arguing with Mister Gold has proven only four things: Jane is missing; she’s probably with Cora; they have no idea where she is; and tomorrow is going to be a long day.

A _very_ long day.

“Honestly, I don’t think she’s even in Storybrooke anymore. I think they took her outside.”

He blows out a long breath. “Have you mentioned it to Gold?”

“I think he suspects it. If I do, he does. But we haven’t talked about it.”

“Do you have a game plan?”

She shrugs. “She could be anywhere.” If Jane is outside the town line, they are all screwed. If Jane is outside, the game plan is panic and blind luck.

“No library grand opening, I guess.”

“Unless you have a miracle I can borrow,” Emma says.

 “I should expect to work the weekend, then?”

Emma groans and resists the urge to cover her face with her greasy hands. He’d covered last weekend for her.  He hasn’t had a day off in ages. And he is supposed to be taking Mary Margaret out on a date this weekend. Like a _date_ date. Like a ‘take her out to Granny’s with white roses and a room at the B &B for some privacy because their anniversary is coming up’ kind of date.  She deflects the urge to swear (loudly and colourfully, as learned during her travels through many foster homes) by guzzling her soda until the straw sucks at air.  “On a scale of one to ten, how much am I grounded?”

“Mary Margaret will understand.”

“She’s been talking about this for weeks.”

David shrugs. He looks thoughtful, but not particularly worried. “We’ve been through quite a bit over the years.” It’s an understatement. From what Emma’s heard, several assassination attempts, endless separation, a blackmail induced breakup, a curse, and a false marriage are only _part_ of the story. “Our actual anniversary isn’t until Tuesday anyway.”

 “I owe you one. Big time.” She’s starting to rack up quite a debt. At least David’s not likely to lord it over her. Unlike _certain other_ people.

“Well, in that case…” David’s lips curl up into a mischievous smile that rattles Emma’s tightrope-of-trust and twists her stomach into a knot. “…you can be the one to tell her.”

Emma’s eyes widen and she glances to her bare wrist. Suddenly the favour she owes Gold doesn’t seem so daunting. “Oh my, look at the time. I should get going.” She moves to stand, but the David pins her with a look that locks her limbs in place. She tires diffusing his stare by offering him a fry. It doesn’t work. She sighs. “Fine. I’ll phone her and explain.”

“Today?”

“Yeah.”  She glances at the sun, then pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and checks the time for real. “I really should get going, though.”

David nods.

She closes the Styrofoam box (sandwich finished, pile of fries barely dented), gathers up her trash, and stands.

“Emma?”

She turns back to look at him.

“Just… uh… just stay safe, okay?”

He looks like he wants to reach out to her. His hand shifts uncomfortably on his knee, as he stares at her with more tenderness and worry than she’s fully comfortable with. Mary Margaret’s usually the attempting-to-parent one, where David is just… David. But he’s worried. And he probably has good reason to be. Still, his concern stings the back of her throat like paint thinner, sends her pulling back and smiling and making excuses to get away.

She smiles and holds up her hands, lifts the paper bag and take-out box in her hand like a trophy.

“Thanks for lunch,” she says.  “And don’t wait up.”


	19. Chapter 19

Emma unlocks the tall wooden gate, fumbling for the latch in the darkness, and steps into Gold’s back yard. A chorus of crickets chirps softly, just out of sight. She feels like a thief and a trespasser (and she should know—she’s been both on several occasions) even though Gold has more-or-less extended her an invitation.

An invitation, as in he isn’t answering his phone. And they need to talk.

From what she can see (of _course_ she hasn’t brought a flashlight, because that would be a completely reasonable thing to do), Gold’s garden is well kept. Blueish outlines of flowers, shrubs, and vines jut out of the uniform blackness. The whole setup makes her think of Jane, of walking through the hospital gardens in the dead of night with hot chocolate and a hundred-thousand questions floating through the air.  At this junction between late spring and early summer, the air is still cool when the sun goes down, and the chill seeps through Emma’s leather jacket. With a shiver and a hope that Cora isn’t heartless enough to withhold a blanket, Emma follows the path around the corner of the house.

Light spills across the pathway from a small window set near the base of the house,, illuminating every brick and casting a soft yellow glow up the side of the board fence. It identifies Gold’s location and completely ruins her night vision. When she bends over, hands on her knees and blinking to peer through the window, she can make out a spinning wheel beside a pile of straw. But no sign of Gold.

It takes her less than two minutes to find (and open) the trap door.

It takes her another three to muster up the energy to wander down the concrete stairs.

It’s not that she’s afraid. It’s just that she’s watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds and Fringe in her lifetime, and she knows basement stairs always lead to bodies or monsters or both. Life in Storybrooke hasn’t exactly disproven either possibility.

Trying to keep her hands from balling into fists, Emma grips the railing and hooks her other thumb in her belt. She takes the first five steps in a jog. “Gold? You down here?”

“Well, I’m not about to let you run around unsupervised, am I?”  His voice drifts from the far end of the room, barely audible.

“Hello to you too,” she mutters, and follows the rest of the steps down into a relatively clean, dry, unthreatening cellar.

Gold stands behind a rough table of unfinished wood, backlit by a single lightbulb and a shelf containing several faintly glowing bottles. A shelf which looks to have been recently ransacked, if the empty bottles strewn across the table and the broken shards piled up against the wall are any indication. Even the surface of the table seems to pulse with light. Gold has an angry green smear on the forearm of his grey dress shirt (due to an absence of jacket), and he uses the table to balance himself, (due to an absence of cane). He stirs a small black cauldron with a metal stick that hisses and fizzes and looks half-way to corroding.

“Uh, Gold…”  Emma gestures to the green splotch on his arm. It’s beginning to smoke. “I think you’re about to catch on fire.”

He looks down without changing his expression, just as tiny emerald flames leap from the stain and begin licking up his arm towards his elbow. His mouth tightens slightly, and he pauses his stirring to wave his hand over the fire. It disappears with a small ‘hiss’. Gold frowns at the sight of his skin peeking through a charred hole in the fabric.

“So… how’s it going?”

He grunts. When he waves his charred arm over the cauldron and it does nothing but belch smoke, he picks up one of the beakers and whips it unceremoniously against the wall. It lands, shattered, in the pile of glass, leaving orange spatter on the brick. He returns to his stirring.

“So, not good, then.”

Gold’s mouth pulls tight.

She buries her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “Didn’t think so.”

“What do you want, Miss Swan?”

She wants a lot of things. She wants another sandwich. She wants an extremely large, extremely strong cup of coffee. She wants to go to bed and sleep for twelve hours straight. And most of all, she wants to find Jane, so that a wish for food and a warm bed can transform into reality.

“I want to help,” she says.

She has been helping all day, she supposes. Talking to the townspeople. Searching gardens and hospitals and endless empty streets. Combing through Whale’s house, Jane’s apartment, driving around in circles to chase even the hint of a clue. Recruiting Ruby and (a very unhappy and anniversary date-less) Mary Margaret to spend the weekend turning people away from the library-grand-opening-that-is-not- to-be.

But she wants to prove to Gold that she’s helping. And maybe give them both a little hope.

“Help,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“How?”

Emma shrugs again, pulls her hand out of her pocket and gestures to the cluttered table. “Magic?”

Gold blinks. The corner of his mouth curls into something a little too harsh to be a smile, and he raises his eyebrows.

She clears her throat and decides to explain herself. “I figured we went through that barrier spell pretty quick with the two of us.” Still no answer. “Or if you don’t want to work together, maybe it’ll work better with just me.”

His eyebrows lift higher. His silence weighs on her, a lead blanket dropped onto her shoulders.

 She scrambles, sluggish under his judgement, to find a way to explain her thoughts. “What if Cora is hiding Jane from you? Mary Margaret and David told me you were able to protect them from Regina’s magic in the other place… so maybe Cora’s doing the same to you. Like blocking your IP address.”

He blinks.

She probably didn’t need to add that last bit. Emma has a hard time imagining Gold in the same room as a computer. She sighs. “Come on, it can’t hurt, and we’re running low on options.”

The truth of their predicament lurks in his eyes like a skittish dog, visible but cowering. He knows she’s right. He knows they’re nearly out of time. But he’s stubborn and he sneers and he limps around the table to speak face to face.

One, two, three steps closer. (Three steps too close.)

“Oh, magic can hurt, dearie. More than you know.”

She can smell the fire on him, the charred sleeve, see the strain and exhaustion and sheer desperation in his eyes. (And grief, and a little madness, and she doesn’t want to be close enough to him to see all these things, because he’s oddly less terrifying when she can pretend he’s a moustache twirling villain.) She takes a half step back, trying to gain some distance between them without retreating.

“Hey, that’s not what I meant.”

He doesn’t step after her. In fact, he doesn’t move at all. He just stands there, back straight and hip cocked to keep the weight off his bad leg, and watches her. “Magic always comes with a price,” he says slowly.

“Yeah, I’ve heard.” On several occasions. From more than one source.

“And that price is always higher than you expect. Are you sure you want to start meddling?”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that? What about the barrier spells?”

He waves his hand, brushing away her protests like a particularly insistent fly. “Harmless. Insignificant.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So then why bother teaching me?”

A flippant hand gesture. “Why not?”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to let me try and find Jane, or not?

His fingers rub together, twisting. (Spinning.) He ‘hmm’s as he deliberates. Finally, flicking his eyes up and down her body as if sizing her up for a boxing match, he speaks. “Tell me, Sherriff. What would you do to save your boy?”

She steps forward and raises a hand, levels her finger pistol-straight at his chest. “Don’t you bring him into this.”

“It’s a simple question.” If anything, the new closeness between them emboldens him. “If Henry’s life was in danger, what would you be willing to do?

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Twice, before she speaks. The tension drains out of her, loosening her scowl. Her voice comes out in a whisper. “Anything.”

“Would you give your life?”

“In a heartbeat.”

His hand, his fingers—and all the flurry of his tiny unnoticeable actions—stop. Fade into stillness and danger. It adds a free-fall to his words that makes her stomach twist. “And the lives of others?”

“I—”

It’s an impossible question that spawns a brood of new questions. (Which others? How many others? Is he talking human sacrifice or self defense?)  She can’t just make a snap judgement about hypothetical moral situations, standing here in his basement at eleven o’clock at night. Maybe he can see the future, but she can only see him, watching her, waiting for her to give the wrong answer.

(She can only see Henry’s face, and his smile, and the way he sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating. And his hugs, and the times when he looks so much like her that she laughs, and the times when he looks so much like his father that it hurts like a boot to the kneecap—and his face, white and lifeless, lying on a hospital bed only a year ago.)

“—I don’t know,” she says.

He stares at her. She stares back. His fingers begin rubbing together again.

Without another word, he limps back to the table. He lifts a large leather bag from the floor (it looks like an old fashioned doctor’s kit), and opens it. “All magic comes with a price.” He removes smaller vials and packages of what look like dried herbs from the bag. (One packet, from here, looks like it contains dead insects. “Often the price is exacted through the life force of either the creator or wielder of the spell. Especially with dealing with larger undertakings, the results can be… undesirable.”

It takes a moment to register his words (and shake Henry’s face loose from the back of her mind). She steps towards the table, frowning. She doesn’t know what she said to change his mind, but obviously it was the right answer.

She looks down at the assorted ingredients on Gold’s desk. He shoves the hissing, bubbling cauldron to the end of the table to make more room. “What do you mean, life force?”

“Life force can take the form of energy, pain, years of living, health… even one’s life. Magic can, and will kill the unwary.” He spreads the ingredients out on the table, evenly spaced and easily seen on the rough wood. He gestures to them with a broad sweep of his hand. “Potions and recipes introduce a buffer between the price and the user. Ingredients are typically able to satisfy the cost of the spell. They require more knowledge to create, and are more time consuming, but significantly less volatile.”

Gold reaches behind him and pulls an empty wide mouthed beaker from off the shelf. “The most effective location spell requires a blood sample. We will make do with the second most effective, and use an object that belongs to Jane.” He pulls a small cloth sack from his leather doctor’s bag, still on the table, and sets it down with a clink of broken crockery. Reaching behind him with one hand, while positioning the beaker with his other, he slides a folded page out of his pants pocket. “Just to be sure, we’ll use two.”

Gold lays the page on the table, and Emma can read ‘ _Jane Eyre’_ and copyright information.

Emma doesn’t think Jane would appreciate anyone ripping a page from her book. But she also doesn’t think Jane appreciates being kidnapped, so she doesn’t argue. Instead, she smiles and nods and waits for Professor Snape to continue his lesson.

“The main ingredients in this spell,” Gold says, with a quick glance to Emma’s face to make sure she’s paying attention, “are a bonding agent, an energy source, and a base.” He points to a bag of what looks like herbs and metal filings, the bag of insects, and a vial of glowing blue liquid in turn. No fewer than fifteen other ingredients sit on the table, though, and he catches her wary glance by pulling a second paper from his back pocket and slapping it down in front of her. “The devil’s in the details, though. So don’t get sloppy.”

She unfolds the new paper and reads the recipe, copied out in an angular handwritten scrawl.  She stares down at the ingredients, at the beaker and the new pot he lifts onto the table, and scowls. “Am I reading this right?”

“It depends. What does it say?”

“’120 consecutive minutes of stirring’?”

He pulls a wooden spoon from thin air with a tiny puff of acrid smoke, and holds it out to her. “Thank you for volunteering to help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters in a row because 1: They're either two shortish chapters or one really long chapter, and I couldn't decide. So now they're two short ones, but posted one after another so the separation between them isn't as large. 2: I'm going to New York City on Thursday, so I will be gone for a week and will probably forget to post while on vacation. So instead of just taking a week hiatus and leaving you hanging, I'll give you two now. Not ideal, but alas. So hopefully you enjoy both chaps and have a great couple of weeks, and I will be back to posting Dec 2.


	20. Chapter 20

Emma does not enjoy cooking.

She enjoys fruit loops and pop tarts and sandwiches. She uses the toaster or the microwave, and if it takes longer than five minutes to prepare, she’ll eat it cold or starve. And so, stirring a malodorous potion (which smells like paint thinner and livestock) for two hours feels like a particularly unique form of torture . She hopes she never has to do this again. Ever.

She switches the spoon between hands for what must be the fifteenth time and mumbles thanks to the powers-that-be that her phone has music on it and battery enough to play it. So now her phone blares ACDC from tinny speakers, and the alarm should be going off any minute (even though she’s been saying that for the last twenty-five) and it’s after one in the morning and she can barely feel her arms below the elbow and everything is horrible.

And just to rub salt in the wound, while she slaves away over her bubbling stench potion, Gold sits at his spinning wheel and spins more money than she’d make in a year.

He’s good at it, she guesses. He seems to move without even thinking about it, as easily as breathing. Spinning the wheel with a little foot pedal under his good leg, lifting handfuls of straw up the end of a piece of string and then suddenly connecting them with a twist of his hand. Twisting the string and then – poof— the string is gold. It makes no sense and confuses the eye, but it gives her something to watch, even though the smooth motion of the wheel threatens to send her to sleep about every five seconds.

Until her phone alarm goes off, an air raid klaxon on full speaker volume (because it’s the only thing loud enough to get her up in the mornings), and her heart nearly stops. She pulls the spoon out so fast she almost sloshes half the potion onto the table. As it is, she sprays the shelf behind her with drops of blue-green liquid.

“Uh, Gold?”

He looks up from the wheel, continuing his spinning without pause.

“I think it’s done?”

She hopes it’s done. She holds the dripping spoon just out of reach of her boots, wrinkling her nose. Now that she’s stopped stirring, her fingers cramp and the muscles in her wrist seize up in protest. Her arms feel like Gold’s turned them to gold along with the straw.

“Is it blue?” he asks.

Emma examines the drops of liquid on the spoon. “Ish?”

Gold places his hand on the spinning wheel, stopping it abruptly. He snatches his cane from the wall behind him and stands, crossing the floor to her in three long strides. He pokes his cane at the drops on the floor with a neutral expression, and then peers into the pot. “Have you tasted it yet?”

The spoon nearly falls from her numb fingers. “Are you insane?”

“It’s a tracking spell,” he says, as if she is thoroughly the stupidest person he’s ever met. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

“It smells like crap.”

“And if you mixed it incorrectly, it will taste like it smells.” He dips his pinky into the mixture, skimming some blue-green sludge from the side of the cauldron. “Let’s hope you’re a fast learner,” he says, and then pops his finger into his mouth.

She watches, waiting for disaster.

His face never changes.

“So… did I get it right?”

He gestures to the cauldron. “You tell me.”

“No way.”

He shrugs. “You said you wanted to help.”

“I wanted to help find Jane, not play _Hell’s Kitchen._ ”

A toss of his head, a slanted smirk, and he leans forward on his cane. “My cellar, my rules. The door is up there, if you care to leave.”

She glares at him, and lifts the spoon to her mouth without breaking eye contact. Trying not to scrunch up her face like a two year old opposing mushed peas, she quickly flicks her tongue over the leftover potion stuck to the spoon. She braces for disaster and prepares a rather impressive string of swear words to throw at him.

Except, the rank blueish sludge tastes… okay. It may have the relative consistency of apple sauce, but it reminds her of maple syrup. She doesn’t mind it. She kind of likes it.

Her utter shock must have snuck past her unspoken swear words and made its way onto her face, because Gold’s insufferable smile grows larger. He inclines his head, a bow or an ‘I told you so’.

“Congratulations, Miss Swan. You have made your first tracking spell.”

 

xxxx

 

It takes him another half hour to set up for the spell. Thankfully, he offers her his spinning stool to sit on in the interim, so long as she promises to stay awake. She dozes off several times, because watching him light candles and adjust the angle of mirrors isn’t particularly riveting, but she always manages to drag herself back to consciousness. (It helps that he raps her shin with his cane every time he passes.)

She’d heard from David that tracking spells involved frantically chasing flying inanimate objects across town. But each time she’s imagined chasing a flying teacup shard at night, it only ends in misery. Especially when those imaginary forays begin by chasing a magical teacup shard at night and end with running straight into Cora and Regina’s camp. Then her imaginings end in misery _and_ death.

Not ideal.

Obviously, Gold has come to the same conclusion—because he assured her that this particular spell involves no flying objects whatsoever. (Besides, he said, the other spell takes several days to properly ferment and he wasn’t about to wait.)  Instead, it requires mirrors and candles, and a silver basin that turns the blueish potion as reflective as a newly polished car.

Just as her eyes begin to glaze and her head bobs again, Gold steps back from the final candle and drops the match onto the floor. It disappears before it ever hits the ground.

“Ready,” he says. He makes a hasty ‘get up’ gesture with his hand.

With a groan, she pushes herself up from the stool and moves to stand beside Gold, in front of the basin. She can see herself in the basin and all the mirrors, waiting. Reflections of her reflections, her drowsy expression endlessly repeated in mirrors all around, positioned to stretch on forever. Gold turns off the cellar lights with a wave of his hand and shadows spring to life, leaving the candles as the only light in the room. They seem too dim to stop the darkness. The teacup shard and the book page sit on the table beside the basin, which holds the blue-green liquid in a foul smelling pool.

She doesn’t want to hope. This is her first spell, and not even _Gold_ has been able to find Jane, because she’s probably outside the town line—and disappointment still tastes like bitter sawdust, even after years of exposure. She can tell Gold feels the same, because he keeps his expression disinterested, wary as he moves beside her to stand in front of the basin. They both pretend his hands aren’t jittery as a caffeine addict as he wordlessly drops the cup and paper into the pool of liquid in the basin.

For a moment, nothing happens.

For a moment, Emma chews flecks of black polish off her fingernails.

For a moment, Gold’s eyes narrow, and he scours the mirrors around him as if searching for a clue inside his own reflection.

And then, despite closed windows, the wind blows. The candles flicker.  The furthest, most distant reflections in the mirror begin to change. The closest reflections stay the same, though Reflection Emma’s expression shifts from bored disappointment to wonder, and her hands drop to her side. Reflection Gold (and the real Gold) twists his mouth up into a smile, and he presses his jittering hands together, rubbing them quietly.

The most distant mirrors reflected in the mirrors (reflected in the mirrors, ad infinitum) reveal unfamiliar places, shifting between images so quickly it looks like someone flipping through pages in a book. First a stone and tapestry nursery, then a grand hall, then a stables, then an archaic kitchen, then a library… a rapid-fire slideshow of medieval castle life. A winter scene, a summer scene, indoors, outdoors, again and again and again, castles and gardens and forests and carriages and a ball room and a courtyard. Faster and faster. Closer and closer, as more of the tiny reflections catch like a chain of gunpowder, until they erase distant reflections of Gold and Emma and grow ever more prominent in the mirrors.

There are never any people in the images. Only empty abandoned locations.

And it’s silent, though the wind and the constant flicker of moving pictures give the illusion of sound.

“It’s her past,” Gold says. He starts at the suddenness of his own voice, as if he never meant to speak aloud.

The reflections leap forward. The images switch locations. They still show a castle, but this castle is dark and jagged and sitting in the mountains instead of on a broad plain. This castle has dungeons, and a great hallway lined with tall windows and heavy curtains, and a library. And rooms cluttered with objects.

And a spinning wheel.

 The objects in the room shatter, and the images leap forward again. (By now, only two reflected copies of Gold and Emma standing between the images and the real world.)

Beside her, Gold tenses and looks away.

Another cell. This one different than the last, circular, wall closest to the cot covered with tally marks from floor to ceiling. Another, evidently modern, like an asylum, with a small barred window and a massive steel door. It hangs before them, unmoving, for the longest ten seconds of her life.Gold looks like he might tear the mirror to pieces with his bare hands.

Before he has the chance, the images pick up speed again, encompassing the mirrors entirely. (The only reflections of Gold and Emma remain in the silver basin, tinted blue and untouched by the flickering mirrors.) 

The mirrors speed through Gold’s shop. Gold’s house. The kitchen, the garden, a bedroom, the living room.Granny’s diner. The library. The town line at night. The hospital, the shoreline, Mary Margaret’s house, Gold’s shop again, and his house again, and the library again. The library over and over and over. And then an office, for the briefest second. And then, silent and still and projecting mid-afternoon warmth into the early morning cellar, the town line.

The line hangs for a long moment, unmoving orange against heavy black pavement—and the mirrors go black. 

Emma exhales a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Is that it?” she asks.

Gold stares at the black mirror with a hunger she recognizes, eyes tightening as their reflections slowly fade back into view. He’s not sweating, but anger oozes from his pores like a visit to the sauna. He stands deadly still, no minute ticks or twitches or any movement beyond the dangerous too-steady rhythm of his breathing. He looks like he wants to smash every mirror in the place, and grind the shards under his heel, and set the dust on fire. And she doesn’t blame him—because if someone ever took Henry from her, she’d want the world to burn. (Mary Margaret’s toaster has the stab marks to prove it.)

“The basin would have shown her, if it could find her.” Gold speaks as if only half-aware his lips are moving. He sounds like a man after a long journey, too exhausted to feel.  But his hand lashes out as he walks to his spinning wheel, and the silver basin clatters to the floor.

Emma scrubs her hand through her hair (knotted into a mess by the wind) and then rubs her aching eyes.  “So she’s outside the line, then.”

“It appears so.” He sits down heavily and picks up a handful of straw, not seeming to mind that the blue-green-potion-sludgepuddle creeps its way along the concrete floor to soak the edge of his straw pile.

“Alright. Then what are our options?”

He spins the wheel by hand, twisting strands of yellow straw into gold thread with painstaking slowness. “You’re the Sherriff. You tell me.”

“Well. I can call the airports. Boston PD, maybe. We can probably drive out to all the little towns around here and put up some posters. Ask the locals.”

He waves his hand in the air. “Yes, yes, fine.”

“You might want to whip up some more of that line-crossing –memory potion stuff. I can put together a team and we can scout the woods.” She pulls her phone from her back pocket and checks for new notifications. Although she has approximately zero, she waves the phone in Gold’s general direction. “And I already have a track on Regina’s credit card.” Not entirely legal, but it can’t be any more illegal than a magic tracking spell. (Probably.)

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t do anything but spin. And spin and spin, with dark eyes and a twisted-down mouth and five minutes ago he was terrifying and now he’s pitiful—and she’d rather see him unleashing wraiths than watch the potion stain his dusty pile of straw.

 “Aren’t you going to say something?”

His voice is too quiet. “What do you want me to say?”

“I dunno. You’re supposed to be the brains of the outfit.” She slides her phone back into her pockets and throws up her hands. “How about, ’Good job, Emma?’ ‘You tried?’ How about, ‘I have a great idea of how to find Jane’? Or maybe ‘Go on to bed now, we’ll come at this fresh in the morning?’”

The wheel creaks. He purses his lips and shakes his head, as if opting out of her tirade.

“Seriously?”

He grabs another fistful of hay.

She groans, and shoves her hands into her pockets. “You know, maybe I should get a new partner. Pongo, maybe. Or Hook. They’d probably be more—”

The spinning wheel stops.

She glances back to Gold. (His eyes glitter with the same smash-the-mirrors urgency lurking just beneath the surface.)  She’d meant it as a throwaway jibe, to get under his skin, and it worked. And, as a bonus side benefit, it has given her a new lead.  She is a genius.

Her lips twist up, even as his press tight, and she gives an offhanded shrug. “I think I’ll pay Hook a visit tomorrow morning, actually. Ol’ Captain Crunch might have a few interesting things to share about the two women who left him rotting in a cell.”

Gold’s gold tooth glints in the candlelight. “I’m sure he does. And I’m quite adept at making people talk.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Don’t kid yourself, Gold. You’re not coming with me. Not in a million years.”

Her resolve lasts to the top of his basement stairs, and not a step further.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading, and a big extra special thank you to firefreezing aka: Grace for being an awesome beta despite crazy schoolness. Hope you all enjoy. :)

When Emma pulls into the hospital parking lot, both Leroy and Gold stand on the curb. Gold does his best to hide his impatience behind indifference, and Leroy just scowls. She steps out of the car and clutches her coffee to her chest like a lifeline against the inevitable onslaught of the day. (Just once, she’d like to arrive first, so _she_ can glare and make snide remarks.)

“Miss Swan,” Gold says, “so nice of you to join us.”

At the same time, Leroy crosses his arms and says, “I can’t believe you let _him_ come.”

She decides to ignore Gold and address Leroy. (Usually not the best idea… but Gold probably won’t hit her, and she can’t claim the same for the dwarf.)

“He’s very convincing,” she says.  She rubs her forehead, thankful for the dark sunglasses shielding her from the sun and the thunderous judgement on Leroy’s face. He raises an eyebrow and she swigs her coffee. “ _You_ try telling him no.”

“I will,” Leroy says. As if remembering that Gold stands less than two paces away from him, he tightens his fists and rolls his shoulders and turns to the other man. “You’re not going in there.”

“Is that so?” Gold asks.

“Yeah, it is.”

Gold chuckles. Sunlight glints off the gold in his teeth. “We’ll see.”

 He remains relaxed, easy posture and unflappable smile. Leroy may be a couple inches shorter, but he’s got a good few pounds on Gold and an underdeveloped sense of self preservation. Gold could turn him into a teacup in half a second, but maybe not before Leroy broke that pointed nose of his. Neither of them seem to care.

Emma decides to stop the pissing contest before it starts. She already has to deal with Hook (the man is so full of hot air he could sail the Jolly Roger under his own power), and that’s more than enough testosterone for one day. She walks straight between them and in through the front door of the hospital, not bothering to make sure they follow. (They do. She can hear grumbling from one or both, and then the scuff of shoes and the regrettably familiar clip of Gold’s cane.)

They reach the basement-slash-furnace-room-slash-asylum-slash-prison without fireballs or pickaxes to the head. At the bottom of the stairs, Emma finishes her coffee, and leaves it on the hallway floor beside her sunglasses, and Leroy fumbles with a large ring of keys. Gold walks unhurriedly, having been passed by on the stairs. (Emma’s half surprised to see he didn’t sharpen his cane for the occasion.) Despite his languid movement, he glares daggers through the heavy steel door.

Leroy raises his eyebrows at Gold, as if to reissue a threat, and then turns back to Emma. He flips through the key ring as he speaks. “I’ll be waiting just outside,” he says, nodding to the ground just outside the door. “If he tries anything, just yell. I’ll be happy to introduce his pretty-boy face to my fist.”

“Unless Gold beats you to it.”

“I told you, he’s not getting in.”

“I don’t see you stopping me,” Gold interrupts, stepping past them. “Now are you going to open the door, or not?” He taps on the metal with his cane.

Leroy just shrugs, and peers through the eyehole. He pounds on the door with his fist. “Hey, Pirate! Stand back from the door,” he yells. “Alright, further. Further back. More.”  A shuffling sound to indicate response, and he slides the key into the padlock. He unwraps the heavy chain and slides the bolt open. Gesturing to Emma with a nod of his head, Leroy opens the door a crack.

Emma attempts to position herself in front of the opening, but Gold blocks her path.

Leroy looks him up and down, weighing him like a particularly stubborn boulder. Finally, he shrugs and opens the door. “Suit yourself.”  (But Emma doesn’t think he looks very contrite.)

Gold, smug as ever, mutters a ‘thank you’ with a cruel smirk. He steps forward as Leroy opens the door to admit him. Emma can see the cell over Gold’s shoulder. It’s neither big nor comfortable, but the pirate has some fairly plush bedcoverings on a cot, a stool for sitting, a few books, and a tiny writing desk with a lamp. He has three completed model ships (though how he put them together one-handed, Emma has no idea) and another in progress. It’s jail, certainly, but it’s not a dungeon.

Gold, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather reinstitute medieval rules. He practically bristles at the first sight of Hook, who lounges on the cot with his head against the wall and his limbs splayed. And then he stops –mid-step—and stumbles back like he’d been hit in the face with a two-by-four. He pitches forward slightly, bending at the waist as if he might be sick, and takes another two steps back. Leroy closes the door behind him.

“Problems, Gold?” Leroy asks, a little too sweetly. He smiles like a jackal.

Gold’s lips are peeled back from his teeth, and he leans heavily against his cane, one hand hovering near his forehead. His chest rises and falls too quickly. Not quite panting, but close. “What did you do?”

“Just a little fairy magic. A nifty little spell here and there to keep Regina and Cora from springing him.” Leroy shoves a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and shrugs. “Oh, and a sprinkle of fairy dust, to protect him from you.”

“How?” Gold snarls the word.

“Does it matter? What’s important is that I helped build your old cell back home. So there’s no way you’re getting in.”

Nearly shaking with rage, or maybe pain, (she can’t tell because they so often look the same on him), Gold straightens. Unless Emma’s instincts have jumped ship, he puts a lot of effort into _not_ murdering Leroy. He turns his blazing eyes on Emma and says, “I’ll wait upstairs.”

“You’ll know anything as soon as I do,” she promises. (He may be a jerk, but he’s a jerk who misses his loved one—and she isn’t heartless.)

He starts off down the hall without another word.

Leroy taps on the heavy steel door with a knuckle, dragging her attention back to the task at hand.

She squares her shoulders and steps inside the cramped cell. With a rasp of metal and a boom like a hollow dumpster, the door slams shut behind her.

The pirate, dressed in black (and shirt open to his chest) sits sprawled on his cot with his legs spread wide and his arm behind his head. In the time it takes for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, Hook’s face slides from hatred to pleasure. His scowl twists up, and his eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“My my,” he says, with a smile he seems to intend for charm, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Emma smiles back, but she snatches the desk lamp off his small table and shines it directly into said eyes.

He grimaces and blocks his face with his hookless stub.  “Not a morning person, I gather.”

She crosses her arms. “Don’t start. I’m not in the mood for—“

“—for what?” He flashes a grin (and doesn’t bother to look innocent), gestures broadly around the cell with his stump.

“For flirting.”

He shrugs. “I have no idea you mean, love. I was just saying hello.”

“Sure you were,” she says. But the harsh shadows of the lamplight make him look washed out and unsettling, and he’ll hardly cooperate if she blinds him—so she sets the lamp down on the desk and takes a seat on the small stool.

“Now that we’re on the topic of flirting, however… did you miss me?”

If she could have lobotomized him with the force of her glare, she would have.

“Well, a man can hope.” But hope of easing her into small talk seems to fade, because he pulls his arm out from behind his head (where he was using it as a pillow between his skull and the dank stone wall) and sits forward into a more conservative position at the end of his cot. He leans forward, with his elbows on his legs—it causes his shirt to hang open a little wider, and she’s certain it must be intentional— and gestures with his free hand. “So, what brings you to my quarters?”

Emma makes a point of keeping her eyes locked on his face. “What do you know about Jane?”

“Who?”

“Belle. The woman you shot.”

“Ah.” He straightens slightly, placing a hand gently over his ribs. He grimaces. “The dark one’s pet librarian. What of her?”

“She’s missing.”

“And how am I supposed to help? I’ve been here.” As if she needs more convincing, he stares pointedly at the locked cell door. “You heard the dwarf. I’m not getting out, and nobody else can get in.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Emma…” He hums her name with the smoothness of polished leather, sleek and gleaming, accompanied with a winning smile. “You know I’m not involved with any of this.” He waves his hand dismissively.

“Humour me,” she says.

“It’s so dank in here. Cramped. How about we talk somewhere a little more comfortable.” 

“Sure. We’ll talk upstairs.” His eyes flick to hers, brows furrowed in puzzlement, and then he stares hungrily at the door. “Gold’s up there, and I know for a fact that _he_ misses you.”

Hook’s eyes fly away from the door like it burns red hot. “On second thought, it’s quite cozy in here.”

Emma shrugs, “Or we could take a stroll down to the docks. Maybe you’d like to be there in person when I blow holes through her hull and watch it sink to the bottom of the harbour.”

Hook’s posture stiffens. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She doesn’t know if she’d have the firepower (yet) to sink an entire ship, but she’s sure Gold would be more than pleased to assist in that particular endeavour, should she deem it necessary. (She doesn’t think it will be. Hook seems particularly keen to share his information.)

He tells her what he knows of Cora and Regina’s hideaways in a concise, matter-of-fact list of locations and details. They spent time at Regina’s home and in the library. Regina has some sort of hideaway under her father’s coffin and under the library. (Emma knows about the latter—David told her about the former.) Regina apparently knows of a cabin somewhere over the town border, tucked away in the woods, but Hook has never seen it and they’ve never used it before. At least, not when he’s been around.

“I don’t know where it is. A couple hours away, if you use one of those motor vehicles.” He waves his good hand awkwardly, with a painful twist of his mouth, as if he can erase cars from existence by mere force of will. “And you won’t find the plans in her office, I can tell you that much. If there’s one thing to be said about Cora and Regina, it’s that they know how to hide. Maybe you’ll find them, but it’ll take weeks. I wouldn’t put a wager on the librarian.”

For the first time since she entered the room, she knows he’s telling the truth.

 

xxxx

After his initial burst of information, Hook’s usefulness dries up like an old orange peel. As he runs out of things to tell her, he simply continues to talk for the sake of talking. He’s obviously no longer afraid of her threat to sink his boat, because some of the things he says are neither useful nor fit to be repeated. She finally exits the room with a bad taste in her mouth and the beginnings of a headache pounding at her temples. She needs another coffee.)

Leroy locks up behind her in silence. She snatches her sunglasses and her (sadly, empty) travel mug from the floor, and sets out to report to Gold.

She finds him in an empty waiting room, standing in front of a plastic chair by the window and glaring at the floor like he can melt Hook from here. He seems to be muttering to himself, with his hand to his ear—and Emma thinks he really _might_ be trying to spell Hook until she grows closer and sees his phone hidden beneath his hair.

She scowls as she approaches. “Hey! Hey. You’re not supposed to use that thing in here. You’ll screw up the equipment.” She gestures with her coffee cup to a ‘no cellphones’ sign.

He turns his Hook-melting gaze on her. Her teeth clamp together and she nearly misses a step. His eyes, dark circled and red with lack of sleep, glint like polished steel. She’s seen Gold angry before—but if anger were an event in the Olympics, this time he’d take gold. (No pun intended. This anger sinks through flesh and sears bone.)

Without a word, eyes never leaving her own, Gold lowers the phone from his ear and enables speakerphone.

Cora’s voice bleeds through. (Emma would recognize it anywhere. It circulates in her nightmares too often to mistake.) “Ah, I had heard about your unfortunate habit of allying yourself with Snow White’s daughter. You’re getting soft in your old age, Rumple.”

They sound like old bickering friends. Emma wonders how they know each other so well. (And, on second thought—maybe she doesn’t want to know.)

“She’s listening, isn’t she?” Cora asks.

“What makes you say that?” Gold pins Emma with his eyes like a butterfly on a board. She keeps her mouth shut.

“Good. So you’ll bring Henry this evening, then.”

Emma’s cup clatters to the floor. She nearly punches him in the nose (her brain screams for fireballs, but her palms only feel cool and clammy), but he flips his cane up expertly and lays it across the back of her wrist. She manages to speak through gritted teeth. “You aren’t taking my son.”

“So you _are_ listening. That’s what I thought.” Cora laughs. (It sounds like broken glass.) “Was it really so difficult to just tell me?”

Emma can hear the sound of her own harried breath in the quiet of the room. “You won’t lay a finger on him. Neither of you. Not over my dead body.” Gold’s cane feels like molten lead against her wrist, and she half expects it to strike her face or press into her throat.

 “I’m sure your dead body can be arranged without much difficulty… but fortunately for you, Miss Swan, I don’t deal in children. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Gold’s mouth tightens. Slowly, he lowers his cane. He seems to collapse his weight onto it. (He looks… old.)

“I need three days,” he says.

“For what?” Cora asks.

“That’s my business.”

“So you can figure out a way to cheat me?”

“To get my affairs in order.”

Cora sounds like he’d just asked for a unicorn and a spaceship. “Absolutely not.”

“Two, at bare minimum.”

Emma tries to catch his eye, to search for answers – affairs in order? What affairs?— but he never looks away from the phone.

“You have one day,” Cora says. “We meet at the line at midday tomorrow. If you don’t show up, we’ll happily leave your little Jane locked up for the rest of her life.” She pauses for effect. “She is quite a compliant prisoner. Apparently she’s had some practice.”

“We’ll be there.”

“ _We?_ ”

“Miss Swan comes. She can cross the line. She’ll make the exchange.”

Emma frowns. “I will?”

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Gold looks away from the phone. He makes her feel like the largest imbecile on the face of the planet.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course I will,” she says. She bends down to pick her mug up from the floor, just for an excuse to duck out of his gaze.

“Fine,” Cora says. “No guns.”

“You’ll deliver her alive. Unharmed.”

“Yes, Rumple, we’ve been over this.”

“And you will never harm her again. You will not hurt her, or take her, or even touch her. Ever. You will not authorize or conspire any impediment to her person. You’ll leave her alone.”

“If you follow through, we’ll not trouble a hair on her pretty head.”

A shadow seems to slide over the room. Gold’s eyes look black, look like brimstone set in darkness, look like murder. Teeth bared, he lifts the phone to his mouth. His hand shakes. “Deal,” he snarls, and slams the phone shut. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Grace (firefreezing) for being fabulous, as always.
> 
> Oh, also for catching my mistakes and fixing my goofs. BETA POWER.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing (a really high turnout last chap!), and I hope you enjoy the new chap!

Gold's shop takes the idea of clutter, sniffs haughtily at its lack of vision, and then laughs in its face.

Every shelf, every display case, every cupboard, and every table (not to mention every square inch of wall) overflows with objects. Armoires, a cello, strange wooden masks, drinking glasses and knives, washbasins and mirrors (not unlike the one they used for their spell), odds and ends and bobs and knobs and trinkets. A pack-rat's dream. Not only does his shop burst at the seams with… stuff… but she's been to his house. He has entire rooms crammed with enough stock to fill his shop twice over . Though, she has no idea how he plans on selling anything, when nobody will come near him with a thirty-foot pole (except to argue with him or ask for his help).

She wonders if it says something about him, the way a peek into a con's house might help her track him down. Maybe it's because she's on her fourth cup of coffee and it's not even noon, but it seems to her that Rumplestiltskin himself exists as a cluttered chaotic confusing mess, barely organized and crammed full of more mysteries than anyone can rightly know… but maybe if someone took the time to sort through the three drawers of tarnished cutlery, they'd find some real silver. (Or maybe she's just on her fourth cup of coffee.)

In any case, he lives in a perpetual storm of organized chaos, and he leads her straight through the maelstrom, into the back of his shop and around to his worktable without saying a word. She sets her travel mug on his workbench, gingerly moving a hubcap out of the way to make room, and then stands back to watch him ransack a cupboard.

"So let me get this straight," she says, tapping her fingers against her folded arms. "In a little more than a day, Cora plans on trading Jane for a magical knife. Which she and Regina will use to control you." No answer. "Or kill you. Or control you and then kill you."

He finally looks up, for the barest of moments. "Yes."

"Just checking."

She winces at a clatter of metal on wood as he unceremoniously drops a saucepan onto the floor behind him.

"I fail to see how this is a good plan."

He drops a handful of serving spoons into the saucepan. It clatters like a car on its last legs, ringing so loudly in her ears that she almost misses his response. "All will be revealed in time."

"Why does that not reassure me?"

"Because," he says, finally pulling out a long cardboard box from the depths of the cupboard, "you have absolutely no faith and even less imagination." He plops the box down on his worktable.

Though his words rankle her, and she opens her mouth to protest on principle, a tiny corner of her brain threatens to agree with him. (A year ago, he might have been right. But she's had some rigorous and involuntary belief practice since then.) "Hey, I think I—Why do you have a hammer?"

Her argument is waylaid by the handheld wooden mallet he lifts from the box.

"Mallet," he says.

"Whatever." She tries not to stare. She has a bad feeling about the way he hefts it, shifting and weighing it in his palm. "The question still stands."

He flips the mallet upside down and rests the handle against the table, folding his hands over the head like a miniature of his cane. "I'm going to teach you to fix things."

"What kind of things?"

Gold gives a shrug, a down-twist of his mouth. He places his hand, palm down, on the table.

"You're hilarious."

He raises an eyebrow. He sheds his jacket, hanging it on a nearby coatrack that juts out from the clutter, and unbuttons his cuff.

"And you're not joking."

He rolls his sleeve up to his forearm, removes his rings, and replaces his hand on the table. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he aligns the head of the mallet with his smallest finger.

(He's definitely not joking.)

She can feel the prickle of sudden sweat on her back. Her hands begin to jitter. (She glares at her coffee cup to blame her symptoms on caffeine instead of dread.)

"Don't do this," she says.

For a moment, like a flash bulb searing her retinas, his eyes tighten and his hand shakes too. He stares at the mallet with betrayal in his eyes, like it had done him a personal grievance. But then the expression fades, and he's grim and solemn and impatient. (And maybe she really did drink too much caffeine, or maybe she's projecting her own growing panic, because he looks up at her and nearly smirks.) He lifts the mallet as high as his shoulder. "Let's hope you're a quick learner, Miss Swan."

"Gold—" she says. And then, as if it might possibly help, she adds, "Please."

The hammer falls.

(His bones crunch like broken porcelain, but he never makes a sound.)

xxxx

They stop only twice in the next two hours. Once, so Emma can empty her stomach of her most recent cups of coffee (she has a strong stomach, but fingers aren't supposed to bend that way)—and a second time without an explanation (where Gold simply lays the mallet down, leaves the room, and returns fifteen minutes later).

Mending broken bones feels like running a marathon backwards and blindfolded, like spelunking without a harness, (like hijacking a yellow Volkswagon Beetle and finding a man asleep in the back seat). After a while, she simply plopped herself down on a stool, with her eyes closed and her head in her hands. Using the sound of the mallet as cue, she lashes out with her magic whenever she hears the 'crunch,' and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor.

While she is supposed to be 'learning' how to heal, he refuses to answer any questions, and for a time, she forgets to ask. She needs to be able to do this in her sleep, Gold says. She needs to be able to heal the worst injury she can imagine, with a torrent of magical safeguard buffeting her like the ocean at every step.

But, even when he exchanges the mallet for a kitchen knife, and presses the tip to the knee of his injured leg, he won't say why.

When he raises the knife for the first time, her resolve crumbles away as if she's already being buffeted by the ocean, as if she's standing on an undercut cliff edge and another step forward could send her careening into the sea.

"I won't do it," she says suddenly, staring in horror at the dimple the blade makes in his impeccable suit.

He pulls the knife away from his leg in a smooth motion, as if he's handled it a hundred times, as if he's entirely used to stabbing people (and himself) with short blades.

"Whatever this is," Emma continues, eyes locking onto the knife, and then to the discarded mallet on one of the shelves behind Gold, "I'm done. I won't be a part of it."

"You're already a part of it."

She rubs at her eyes, which feel like they've been scoured with a pressure washer, and then puts her hands to her throbbing temples. "Yeah, well I quit."

"Fine." He gestures to the front of the shop with the knife, keeping his oft-broken hand curled by his side. "You know the way out."

If she could have stood without wobbling, she might have taken him up on the offer. Instead, she just glares at him from her stool.

"I'm not going to keep you here," he says. "But if you'd like to leave Storybrooke in the hands of Cora and Regina, that's your choice." He gives a tiny shrug (and a tiny smile). He knows he's already won.

Emma wants to throw up again. Every muscle trembles. She'd exhausted herself to this point only twice before: once while running from the law, and once while on the side of the law. She'd run until she stumbled, stumbled until she limped, limped until she fell, and then lay down until she could move again. But she'd escaped the first time, and caught the guy the next… so maybe saving the town (and Jane, and ultimately Henry) would be worth a repeat performance.

Still, it's not her ideal way to spend a Saturday morning.

It's not Gold's either, despite his bravado. Though he carries himself a good deal better, he looks almost as worn as she does. He keeps his broken-and-healed hand tight to his side, almost as if unconsciously shielding it from Emma. It's fixed—he's used it with deliberate, obvious finesse at times, as if to prove it to them both—but he keeps his fingers still as if fearing her healing spell may not hold. He looks as scruffy as she's ever seen him, with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, and the top button of his shirt undone. She thinks she can see stubble on his cheeks.

Emma stares at the knife in his hand, now resting on the table.

"Does it hurt?" she asks. (She doesn't know. He hasn't given her any sign. But his tie is loosened and he's hiding his other hand from the memory of pain, so maybe it does hurt. Maybe he's just better at hiding things than she is.)

"I've learned to block pain to some degree." He hesitates, rubs his fingers together, and then adds, "But yes."

If he's felt even a fraction of the pain he's been inflicting on himself, and even a fraction of the exhaustion that swallows her, how is he still standing? (As if to demonstrate her own point, her body wobbles, and she grabs the edge of the worktable to keep herself from toppling off the stool.)

"Why are you doing this?" she asks.

"For her." (His voice carries a very strong undertone of 'duh.')

"Yeah, I know that. But why? How is learning to fix up smashed fingers going to help?"

"You may be required to heal an injury."

A bubble of anger tinged with panic (or panic tinged with anger, she can't tell which is strongest) eats away at her already empty stomach. It erodes the confidence in her voice, leaving only suspicion and worry. "Why? What injury? What aren't you telling me?"

"Many things, Miss Swan."

It's one thing to know he's hiding things from her. It's another thing to hear him admit it. (The panic bubble pops. Fury sizzles in its place.)

"Then that's got to stop, right now."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Does it?"

"Yes." She glares at him, points a finger directly at his chest, at the vulnerable scrap of skin peeking out from behind his loose tie. "I'm tired of running around trying to figure this crap out as I go along. I'm tired of you dancing around the point, like I'll bail on you once I solve the mystery. I'm not a moron, and I'm not incompetent. Tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it!" Her voice burns with an energy she'd thought depleted.

"Are you quite finished?"

"No."

He stares at her. Her face begins to burn, but she keeps her eyes locked on his and doesn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassment.

"Why shouldn't I ask questions?" she demands. "You're stabbing yourself in the arm, for goodness sakes! I think questions need to be asked."

"Fine, he says. He watches her, looking as disinterested as if they'd been discussing the weather over tea.

Silence settles between them like defeat. Emma throws her hands up. "What do you want from me?"

"Trust."

She frowns. "What?"

"I want you to trust me, Miss Swan."

"That's going to be hard to do."

"Right now, I am trying to give you years of instruction in less than twenty four hours. I am enacting a plan to keep Cora and Regina from using me to wipe out every living person in this town. I am trying to rescue the woman I love. And I am trying to maintain the state of mind I require in order to drive this knife into my leg."

It takes a substantial effort of will not to look away from him.

"So," he continues quietly, finger 'tap tap tapping' on the blade of the kitchen knife, "if you would keep quiet and do what I ask—for once, without fighting me every step of the way—I would be happy to share my plans with you when we're finished our lesson."

The thought of continuing the lesson (of the glinting knife) weighs on Emma like a lead vest. She's already so tired she thinks her body might go on strike, and knock her out as part of the protest. Her hands shake and her eyes droop and she leans more on the table than on her stool. (But they have Jane, somewhere over the town line, and they'll take Henry too, the second they get the chance.) She straightens her back.

"On one condition," she says.

"What's that?"

"You trust me back."

"You're mistaken, Miss Swan. I do trust you." He smiles, looking down at his hands as if sharing a private secret before slipping both his hands under the knife. Holding it up horizontally as if planning to give a lecture on its balance and workmanship, he traces its edge with his eye. "With my life, in fact."

With no warning, he curls his fingers around the hilt and drives the knife into his right thigh.

It doesn't crunch. Not like bones, not like the sound of breaking. But his face goes white, and he hisses in through his teeth in the first gesture of pain she's recognized, and the blade comes up red, (and somehow that's far worse).


	23. Chapter 23

Forehead mashed against the worktable, Emma attempts to find a position just uncomfortable enough to keep her conscious. She adjusts her arms, which are rather ungracefully tented over her head, and leans her weight forward. The wood (so rough it feels like a million splinters waiting to happen) scratches at her face. The table smells like citrus table polish—and she’d happily breathe in citrus table polish for the rest of her life if she could just continue lying here, not-quite-awake, for five more minutes.

Somewhere off in the distance, Gold rattles around in the room. She waits, drifting between sleep and waking, for the noise she needs. The _bang_ of a hammer or the _snick_ of a knife or the grunt he can’t always muffle—and then she’ll lash out with a burst of magic, which will beeline for whatever wound he’s inflicted upon himself, and then she’ll go back to waiting and he’ll go back to stabbing and it will all happen over again.

The room sways like a ship behind her closed eyes.

Gold’s footsteps approach. She hears him place one of his hands on the edge of the table across from her.

“Emma.”

“I’m awake!” She pushes herself into a sitting position, as straight as possible, eyes open extra wide to combat their constant attempts to shut. She searches his hand, his dark suit (now completely whole and unstained, thanks to a wave of his hand), his ankles and legs and face for any sign of injury. None. (None that she can see, at least.)

“You need to sleep.”

She blinks.

“What?”

(Until now, Gold had been spewing a constant barrage of ‘no sleeping, stay awake, keep your eyes open, pay attention, don’t you dare nod off,’ with endless refills of coffee and threats to rap her knuckles with the mallet.)

“We’re done for today.”

She glances to the clock. “It’s not even dinner time yet.”

“A good deal of the energy for healing came from you. You could sleep for two days if I let you. Which I won’t.”

“You’re serious? What about all your panicky urgency vibes?”                                       

“My ‘panicky vibes’ will still be there in the morning.” He waves a hand towards the door, where the late afternoon sun shines golden through his shop front window. “Go to bed. We have a long day ahead of us, and I need you rested and alert.”

“Believe me,” Emma says, “I would love to. But there’s one slight problem.”

He raises an eyebrow. (He’s spent nearly the last forty-eight hours reeling her into his schemes, and now he looks like he can’t get rid of her quickly enough.)  “What problem is that?”

She doesn’t want to tell him. But she doesn’t have a choice, seeing as her problem will become very obvious very quickly, so she shrugs and tosses it out as casually as possible. “Yeah, I don’t think I can make it home. Honestly, I don’t even know if I can walk.”

He looks her over, and then swivels his gaze to a cot tucked in the corner of the room.

“You can sleep here.”

“Great. A sleepover with Rumplestiltskin.” She braces her hands on the seat of the stool and pushes herself into a standing position. Her knees wobble, but she leans hard on the table to keep herself upright.

As if recognizing her impending collapse, Gold rounds the table. He holds out his hand. She stares at it, (whole, and unbroken, with long fingers and a certain deftness to his movements), and wishes she’d never seen any other way. She looks away, down, and then up into his face.

“Do you hate this as much as I do?” she asks.

His brows crease. “Hate what?”

She glances at his hand again, and then at her own shaking fingers drumming an accidental tattoo against the tabletop. “Letting people see you’re not invincible.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. She can feel his eyes on the back of her hand, watches his gaze shift to his own (much steadier) fingers. “That’s unusually introspective of you, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, well, it must be sleep deprivation. Either that or the aura of impending doom you’re wearing like a new cologne.”

He grunts. Whether he intends it to be a chuckle or a dismissal, she can’t tell.

When he offers no other response, she places her hand in his.

She leans on him, he leans on his cane, and somehow, they both manage to traverse the room without collapsing. By the time he drops her onto the cot (she lands so heavily she thinks the springs might break), his mouth is tight and he breathes heavily. (‘A good deal’ of the healing might have come from her, but he’s not about to run any marathons either.) He nearly grimaces as he slips his handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and wipes his face.

(However deftly he attempted to avoid answering her question, she spots the answer to her question. She can see it hidden behind his layer of calm, the disgust and shame reserved only for his own weaknesses.)

She leans her head back against the wall.

“You know,” she says, staring up at him with barely-focusing eyes, “we really do look pathetic.”

A flash of irritation in his eyes, and he slips the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Speak for yourself.”

She shrugs. “No, really, you look like you got run over by a freight train.”

He says, “Good _night_ Miss Swan,” with a healthy amount of exasperation, but a shadow of a smile brushes his lips when he turns to leave.

Wriggling under the thin coverlets, she wonders where he plans on going, (when by rights he should be flat out unconscious on the floor beside her)… and then she remembers that she’s too tired to care, and falls instantly asleep.

 

xxxx

 

In her lifetime, Emma has woken up to unpleasant things. Alarms, sirens, gunshots, a rock through her window, a burglar or two, shouting, a kick to the ribs, a pillow over her face, a dictionary thrown at her head, labour pains… so in perspective, the butt end of a cane digging into her back isn’t the worst thing to drag her back into consciousness. But that doesn’t mean she likes it, either.

When she finally manages to opens her eyes, after several more sharp jabs to the muscles between her shoulder blade and spine, she feels like a gravel truck dumped its load behind her eyelids. She rolls over, swatting the cane out of her way, and blinks against the light of several dim lamps. She stares at the faint pinstripes of Gold’s trouser legs until she drags her gaze up to his scowling face.

 “What time is it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Get up.”

With a wave of his hands, the blankets disappear. The air chills her, the cold of pre-dawn and a body too tired to properly warm itself, and she rubs her arms. She sits up. Within a matter of heartbeats (by magic or maybe just by his simple actions, she’s too tired to have noticed), she finds a paper bag on her lap and a large to-go coffee pressed into her hands.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Breakfast.”

“Thanks?” She unrolls the top of the bag, and the scent of a bagel and cream cheese wafts into her face. By the time she’s drained half the coffee in the cup, she nearly feels like a human being. If nothing else, she’s awake enough to remember why she’s sitting in Gold’s shop with a pounding headache and a bagel on her lap.

It’s Sunday morning at the crack of dawn, on the day they’re meeting Cora and rescuing Belle, and she’s suffering the after-effects of yesterday afternoon’s mallet escapades. She’s also starving, so she pulls the bagel out (cinnamon raisin, either a very good guess or he knows her favourite foods, which is a little creepy) and takes a gigantic bite.

Gold watches her chew in silence, leaning on his cane. He looks jittery even though he never actually moves. His feet don’t shuffle and his hands don’t wave around—but the air crackles around him with stifled energy,  as though they should. It’s something in his eyes, in the press of his mouth and the way his fingers twist around the handle of his cane. As if he’s making a conscious effort to appear relaxed, and entirely failing.

“So—” Emma says between mouthfuls of bagel, “—you were going to tell me your plan?”

His fingers tap-tap-tap on the handle of his cane, before he stills them. He adopts a tone of voice like a college lecturer. (She may have spent a grand total of three days in college before dropping out, but she knows a lecture tone when she hears it.) “What do you know of the Dark One’s Curse?”

“Besides the fact it sounds like the title of a cheesy horror novel?”

His expression never changes, but she gets the feeling he wants to hit her across the face with his cane.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay… you’re the Dark One. Old. Magical. Presumably… dark.”  Many others would have said evil— _did_ say evil— in describing Gold to their poor, magically naïve  Sheriff. Once, maybe she would have said the same. But she couldn’t bring herself to go that far. (Not anymore. Not for a long time, maybe.)

“Anything else?”

Emma gives a one-handed shrug with her bagel. “You’re connected to some magical dagger.”

Taking her words as a cue, Gold uses the side of his shoe to push an arms-length black box along the floor towards her feet. He uses his cane to unhook two metal. When he flips the lid off, a wavy, foot-long dagger reading ‘Rumplestiltskin’ stares up at Emma from the black packing foam.

 “Okay, I’m guessing you’re connected to t _hat_ magical dagger.”

“Very astute, Miss Swan. What else?”

“What else do I need to know?”

“A few very important things.” Moving from his spot for the first time since Emma woke, Gold steps closer. “Whoever holds this dagger can control me. Or, they can kill me and take my powers.” He bends down and pulls the knife from the box, holding it at near arm’s length, horizontally, so the blade (and his name) lies across his chest. “When the dark one is stabbed with the dagger, upon his death, his magic is passed to the one who stabbed him.”

She stares at the dagger, at the gleaming edges and the ‘Rumplestiltskin’ etched in black across its blade. At the way his hand curls around the hilt, intimately familiar with every groove and swirl and pattern. (At the way he looks entirely too comfortable wielding a foot-long knife.)

“So that’s how you got your powers, then.”

His eyes drop momentarily from Emma’s face to the dagger, reading his own name across the metal.

“You killed the last Dark One.” From the way she’d heard everyone talk, she thought he’d always been the Dark One. Like it was his title, or maybe his race, or maybe he was just some ageless magical being (like the Mother Superior and the nuns, except meaner). 

Gold’s voice is so quiet she can barely hear it. His brows crease and he stares at his reflection as if at a long-lost stranger. “It was a very long time ago.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I guess so.” Silence begins to settle, a little snowfall of awkwardness, with all the sound in the room sucked up by Gold’s reminiscence, so Emma decides to ignore it by leaning back against the wall and draining her coffee cup in a single long swig. (It’s so hot that it threatens to peel off the roof of her mouth, but it’s better than watching him sulk.) “So…” she says, offering a long enough pause to drag his attention away from his memories, “… you were going to tell me the plan?”

“I was,” Gold says— and at her frown, adds, “I am.”

“Here’s what I already know.” Emma holds up her her un-bageled hand. One finger. “Rescue Belle-slash-Jane.” Second finger. “Don’t let Cora get the dagger.”

“Wrong.”

She pauses, bagel half-way to her mouth. “What?”

“Cora gets the dagger. I made a deal.” As if realizing he still holds the knife across his chest a morbid name-tag, he lowers it to his side.  “And I never break my deals.”

“So I’ve heard. Not even this once?”

“No.”

“Are  you out of your mind? We can’t just hand it over.”

“Of course we can.” He kneels down to set the dagger back into the box. He closes the lid and fastens the clasps. “We just need to make sure it doesn’t work.”

Emma scowls. “And how are we going to do that?”

Gold’s mouth curves into a smile almost as sharp as the dagger in question.  “By listening very carefully, and doing _exactly_ what I say.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a touch late-- I didn't have time to post it before work today, and then I was caught up napping and doing Christmassy things with the family. And speaking of Christmas, I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and a great and fantastical Wednesday if you're not into Christmas. I wish you food and presents and joy, not necessarily in that order. Thanks so much for sticking around and reading.

When Gold asks if she is good at ‘storytelling’, he actually means lying. False backstories, false identities, false motivations, that sort of thing. As a foster-kid-turned-runaway-turned-thief-turned-bail-bondsperson, she has plenty of experience, and tells him as much. So that’s why Gold leaves her to figure out exactly why she’d want him dead, and exactly why she’d need Hook to help her kill him.

(She doesn’t like his plan.)

So she sits at his worktable again, on the same stool with her head in her hands and Gold standing across from her, and waits for inspiration to strike. She didn’t lie to him: she _is_ good at ‘storytelling’ when she has to be—but it’s barely sunrise and her brain is more interested in dreaming than thinking. More interested in a second bagel and coffee (a request which Gold ignores) than in inventing reasons for supposed homicide.

“Any advice?” she finally asks, when Gold begins to simultaneously polish a watch chain and feign disinterest (as if she can’t see him checking the attached watch every thirty seconds).

“Think faster,” he says.

She glares. “Or maybe I should just stab you myself, and save us both the trouble.”

“You are truly noble,” he says.

She groans in exasperation and scrubs her fingers through her hair, knotting curls and creating instant tangles. “Well it would have to be something to do with Henry, I guess. I’d probably kill you for that. Maybe you were going to trade him for Jane?” 

“I might have, if I thought Cora would accept.”

She straightens. Her hands fall from her hair and she stares at him. He’s ribbing her again, she knows—he’s playing a part and pushing her buttons—but she can feel her blood boil already. If he means it for a joke, she doesn’t find it funny. She means to say so, when he interrupts.

“That doesn’t mean she won’t take him as soon as she gets the chance, though.” He speaks casually, polishing away like he’s ordering a pizza instead of discussing kidnapping.

Emma wishes she was within arm’s length of anything worth throwing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He doesn’t even bother to look up at her. His lips twitch into a tiny smile.

It takes a conscious effort to slow her breathing and unclench her fists. Somehow, she manages to stay seated. “You’re such a—”

His eyes flick up to hers. His smile grows to bare teeth. “A what?”

“Nevermind.” She glances to the watch. It’s upside-down to her, but she reads ‘7:15 AM’. Time is running out. “Do you think Hook will buy it, then?”

“Quite frankly, I think you could tell him a flying elephant told you to kill me in a dream, and he’d still sell you his own mother for a chance to hold the knife.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

“Because I want to make certain we succeed. And a little insurance won’t hurt.”

“Is he really that desperate?”

Gold sets down his rag. He holds the chain up to the light and inspects the links one by one, running them through his fingers like a skein of silk. “Three hundred years is a long time to wait for something.”

“You sound like you’d know.”

His makes a small sound in the back of his throat (almost a grunt, like she’d struck him across the face) and his smile slips. He sets down chain down on the table with a clank and a rattle.

She taps her fingers on the table. “So, this plan… it’s going to work like you said, right? I mean, there aren’t any hidden clauses or freakish secrets I need to worry about?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, no.”

She narrows her eyes.  “You’re not going to spring something heinous on me, are you?” He looks at her in mock outrage, mouth open and hand on his chest. She ignores it. “Because, not to sound like a spoilsport, but I have a bad feeling about this. And I usually have pretty good instincts.”

“Think of it this way.” Gold holds up a hand. “If the plan succeeds, we all get what we want. We rescue Jane, Cora gets her knife, and you don’t have to worry about a magically controlled Dark One running around and snatching up your child.”

“And if it fails?”

Gold waves his upheld hand in a dismissive flourish. “If it fails, I die the moment Hook draws blood with the dagger, and he becomes the Dark One.” If he’s trying to hide worry behind his act of sudden confidence, it isn’t working. (However he tries to distract her with sarcasm and reassurances, she knows better. He can keep a lot of things hidden from her, but there’s no way he’s that calm.)

“I don’t see how that helps,” Emma says.

“Well, even in a worst case scenario, Cora gains control of a Dark One whose favourite weapons are his pretty face and a penchant for slicing people with a metal hook.” A momentary pause. “And who is also trapped in a Dark One proof prison.”

 “And you’re sure it’ll hold him?” she asks.

“It could hold me. And if it can hold me,” he pauses, gestures down the length of his torso like she’s supposed to be impressed, “then I don’t think we have much to worry about. So my plan is what you call a win-win situation.”

“Except for you,” Emma says. “If it fails, you die.”

Gold smiles, though this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes. He gives a lackadaisical shrug, picks up the watch by its chain, and turns to place it on the shelf behind him. It swings with the motion as he walks. “Everyone has to die eventually, Miss Swan.”

 

xxxx

 

For once, Emma has arrived somewhere before Gold.

 And it gives her absolutely no satisfaction.

She stands at the bottom of the hospital basement stairs, in silence except for dripping pipes and the faint hum of the lights, and checks that her gun is loaded for the thousandth time. She doesn’t trust Hook and she doesn’t trust to luck. (But, of course, there’s still plenty of danger. It’s so thick in the air she can taste it on the tip of her tongue, at the edge of memory, like almost-fermented apple cider.)

She’s going to pretend it’s routine, of course, as far as she can. Just the daily grind. Sherriff stuff. Kittens up a tree, that sort of thing. No big deal. But in reality, he was supposed to be here ten minutes ago and it makes her nervous. Not much does, other than public speaking or those awkward ‘mother-daughter bonding trips’ Mary-Margaret keeps suggesting, but Gold is a prompt kind of guy. She doesn’t like standing around.

When, after an eternity, she hears Gold’s cane on the steps, she shoves her gun back into the holster on her belt and leans against the wall. She manages to look at least half way composed by the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs. (She was aiming for ‘cool’, but she settles for ‘less panicky’ when she sees the black aluminum briefcase dangling from his free hand.)

“Nice of you to join us,” she says casually.

It’s a tense moment, but he knows the game. He gives her a nod of acknowledgement and smirks as he sets the knife down. They stand a moment in silent bravado, puffed up and cagey by custom, and then Gold bends down to open the briefcase.

Emma purses her lips and takes a step closer. She swallows when he lifts the knife from the case. Her eyes dart to the black ‘Rumplestiltskin’ etched into the blade. “You’re sure about this?”

He balances it delicately on the tips of his fingers, like a breakable teacup instead of a weapon made of steel. He holds it out to her. She can’t read the expression in his dark eyes, but his voice is softer than she expects. “A little late for cold feet, don’t you think?”

He’s right. They’re both committed by now. (Partners in crime, the Sheriff and the Dark One, on an adventure. The strangest bedtime story ever told.)

She takes the dagger. Adjusting her grip on the hilt, she turns it over to examine it, and then holds it awkwardly by her side. It feels just like a knife in her hand. She doesn’t know what she was expecting. “You okay?”

The tip of his tongue darts out between tightly pressed lips, and his gaze shifts to the corners of the room. But he pushes himself to his feet, and leans on his cane, and starts towards Hook’s cell without a word.

She follows his lead the entire way—though she chooses to keep her red leather jacket, whereas he strips down to his dress shirt, folding his suit jacket and vest up into a neat square and leaving them on the concrete floor outside the cell. She fishes the ring of keys from her pocket (her hands shake) and unlocks the door. She swaps the keys for her gun, the knife tight in the sweaty palm of her other hand, and nudges the door open with her foot.

Hook— sitting on his cot in the corner, legs sprawled out in front of him and book open on his lap—looks up in surprise.

“Come on. Inside,” Emma says to Gold in her best gruff voice. He lingers outside, reluctant in act or in truth, and doesn’t step over the barrier until she growls, “Now, Gold” and gestures with the knife.

Hook squints his eyes against the light of the hallway. By the time he recognizes the figure attached to the cane, his book is shut and his face twitches with barely disguised disdain. He sits up very straight. “What’s this? New visiting hours?”

“Something like that,” Emma says, stepping just behind Gold as he staggers inside, looking near to collapsing. (Whoever set up the spell surrounding the cell, they knew what they were doing. Gold looks like he’s guzzled a gallon of battery acid and fallen down the stairs.) She slams the door shut and half-pushes Gold a few steps closer to Hook.

“You have the dagger,” Hook says. He sounds like he’s discussing the weather, but his eyes flick between the knife and the gun.

“Yeah,” she says.

“The Dark One is under your control.”

“Seems that way.”

“You must know his magic won’t work in here.” Hook’s mouth twists down, and he eyes Rumplestiltskin like a piece of rotten meat. Gold can barely stand. “If you’re going to kill me, you’d be better off to do it yourself.”

“Thanks for the tip. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Do tell,” he says. He seems unable to keep his gaze in one place, looking from Emma to Gold to the gun to the dagger in rapid succession.

Emma purses her lips, looks at Gold (who keeps his head straight, eyes fixed on a point in the concrete wall) and then flips the knife around in her hand. She grips it by the blade, the flat of it pinched between her fingers, hilt out to Hook. 

Raising his eyebrows, Hook sets his book down on the cot beside him and swings his legs over the edge, leaning forward as if to stand.  Emma swings the gun towards him and shakes his head. He leans back, holding his hand up as if in defence. 

“If this is a joke, Swan, it’s in very bad form.”

“It’s not a joke.” w

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, as if he has the knife already.

“Long story short, Rumple here wants to trade my son for his girlfriend.” She shoots a glare (she hopes it’s convincing enough) at Gold. Gold’s mouth twitches into a grimace. “He’s a liability. I want him gone.”

“So… why are you coming to me?”

“Do you know how hard it is to hire a reliable hitman?”

Hook looks at her from beneath a quirked eyebrow and half-lowered lids.

Emma rolls her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know how it’s done back in Neverland or wherever— but around here, Sheriffs aren’t really supposed to kill people.  Plus, I think immortality’s more your thing.”

Hook frowns. He gestures with his stump (wrapped in black leather to match his dark shirt) to the gun. “Why the weapon?”

“Because I don’t trust him.” Emma eyes Gold. “Or you.” Her gaze back to Hook, she takes a step closer to him. The step puts the knife almost within arm’s reach for Hook, but she holds it possessively close to her body. “I don’t want you pulling any funny business. I want him dead. Not controlled. Not running around the town tormenting people. Dead.”

“We want the same thing, I assure you.”

Gold opens his mouth and begins to speak, but Emma snaps a hasty, “Shut up,” and his jaw snaps shut with a click of teeth. She looks back to Hook. “Will you do it, or not?”

He lifts his hand to his face and strokes his beard. He’s playing hardball, but she can see the desperation in his eyes.

She points an accusing finger at him. “And don’t bother asking what’s in it for you. You get to kill Gold—that’s your deal.  I’m not letting you out of here. But what’s a little jail time when you live forever, right?”

Ignoring the gun still pointed at him, Hook stands from the cot and holds out his hand. His eyes are fixed on Gold. “Fine.”

Hook’s sudden smile makes her feel queasy. (Eating three bagels in the last four hours, no matter how hungry she was when she woke up, was a definite mistake.) His fingers twitch again, and she narrows her eyes at him before pressing the knife into his palm.

Hook’s fingers curve around the hilt, and he pulls it close to his chest, as if expecting her to change her mind at any second. He steps out of her reach and then shifts the knife in his hand, tossing it up slightly to get a better grip on the hilt. He holds it up, examining its curved blade, the name etched in black, the fine details scrawled into the metal.

“Something wrong?” Emma asks.

“Nothing at all,” he says slowly, and steps closer to Gold. Smirking, he places the tip of the blade under Gold’s chin and pushes his head up.

For the first time since entering the cell, Gold’s eyes snap to Hook’s. Emma half expects the air between them to catch on fire.

“Actually, Dark One, I’ve decided you _can_ speak. Unlike Miss Swan, I’d love to know what you have to say.”

Gold manages to smirk. He straightens his back as much as he can while still leaning on his cane. “I have nothing to say,” he says. “Not to you.”

“Not even a hello?”

Emma can feel sweat beading between her shoulder blades. She shifts her shoulders under her jacket, which suddenly feels much too warm despite the damp chill of the air, and clears her throat. “I hate to spoil your fun, Captain, but can we hurry this up? I’m on the clock.”

“Patience, love. All in good time.” He circles Gold like a shark, the air seeming to ripple after him in waves of sheer enmity. There’s barely enough room for all three of them in the cell, barely enough room for Hook to pace around Gold without hitting the walls, but he manages to look menacing.

“Now’s a good time,” Emma says.

Hook ignores her thoroughly. He doesn’t even notice the gun in her fist. He smiles and props his stump on his hip. The fingers of his free hand twirl the knife loosely in slow arcs, as if practicing on the air before cutting into human flesh. Then he shoves Gold’s back, forcing the other man forward in a stumbling step.

Circling back around to Gold’s front, Hook glowers. He points to the floor with the knife. “On your knees, imp.”

Gold lowers himself down. One knee at a time, all his weight on his cane.  Glaring.

“I want you to beg,” Hook says.

Emma raises her gun a little higher, tries to glance to Gold. But he only stares tiny razorblades at Hook. (He looks white and haggard and old, but he still looks like he could skin the pirate alive with the sheer force of his glare).

“Beg, Rumplestiltskin.” Hook steps closer, staring down into Gold’s face with bared teeth. Emma can’t quite call the expression a smile. “Beg for your life.”

“Don’t kill me.” Gold’s voice trembles, but with anger rather than fear. Devoid of any other emotion. A flat and unsatisfying plea.

“Hook,” Emma warns. She clicks the safety off her gun.

“Please,” Hook says to Gold.

“Please,” Gold repeats.

And then Hook steps closer, though the gap between them had been only marginal at best. He grabs a fistful of Gold’s shirt while still holding the knife, hauls roughly, and commands him to stand. When Gold climbs to his feet, Hook drives the knife between his ribs.

Emma recognizes the sound, the meaty ‘thud’. She bites her lip hard, and tries not to look away.

Gold sags into Hook, trying to crumple, but the knife jutting upward into his side keeps him standing. His mouth opens, a gasp and a heave, and he struggles for air.

“That’s enough,” Emma says, but can barely speak loud enough to hear herself. Maybe she should sound satisfied instead of sick, if she’d really wanted Gold dead... but, at this point, she doesn’t think Hook would notice if she ran off to cry in the corner.

Hook gives the blade a little wiggle, a little twist. A side-to-side sawing that makes Gold convulse.

“That’s enough,” Emma says. She steps forward with her gun raised, pointed at Hook’s face. “Drop the knife!”

Finally, swivelling his head from Gold to her, Hook smiles.

He lets go of the knife and raises his arms, stepping backward towards the wall.

She darts between Hook and Gold, keeping the gun trained on the pirate. She slips Gold’s arm over her shoulder before he completely crumples, bearing his limp weight. One of his hands grips the knife, still buried hilt-deep between his ribs. Somehow, with his other, he’s managed to keep hold of his cane.

“Come on,” she says, fighting the sting of tears and the taste of bile. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Hook’s smile fades. “What are you doing?”

“Stay back,” Emma warns. Gold is heavy, but she’d be hard pressed to miss Hook at this range.

He takes a half-step forward.

“I said stay back!”

Gold begins to laugh. It rises from his chest with a burble, a liquid rasp that sounds like blood.

“Where are you taking him?” Hook demands.

“Oh no, poor little pirate.” Gold says. (Emma’s never heard him sound like this before— high-pitched and manic, like a comedian’s impression of Gold instead of the real thing.) “Did we ruin your fun?”

Hook’s face shifts from panic to rage and back again. “You said I could kill him.”

Emma walks backwards towards the cell door, half carrying Gold. “I lied,” she says.

“Don’t you worry,” Gold says, in that same lilting tone. (It must be the blood loss.) “The wound _is_ fatal. Some of us just take a long time to die.”

“You’ll be fine,” Emma says. She manages to open the door one-handed, while still training the gun on Hook. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”

Gun or no, Hook’s resolve breaks. He starts forward from the wall, face contorted in rage, hand outstretched as if he can strangle Gold here and now. Emma dumps Gold through the open cell door and steps outside, slamming the door shut. She fumbles with the deadlock and manages the slide the bolt close just as Hook crashes into the door, the pounding of his fist thudding dully on the thick metal. His shouts are muffled, but she can judge their content well enough by tone.

She fastens the other locks (her hands come out red when she pulls the keys from her pocket, and she realizes her jacket is wet with matching blood), and then turns to Gold. He must have managed to drag himself over while she locked the door, because he sits slumped against the far wall, beside his suit jacket. The knife lays beside him now, red and glistening in the light of the bare bulb overhead.

She grimaces.

His navy shirt gleams purple on one side. Blood oozes from between the fingers he presses to his ribs.

She shucks her bloody jacket onto the concrete and rubs her hands together, as if she can jump-start her magic like defibrillator paddles. (Her sweat chills her instantly in the cool air.) “Alright,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

Apparently, she’s seething with enough strong emotions to do the trick, (panic is an emotion, panic counts, panic and desperation and maybe she doesn’t _like_ the man but she doesn’t want him bleeding out in front of her) because the first wave of tingling magic wells up in her chest and spreads through her hands. Ignoring his protest, she grabs his shirt and rips it a little further, fingers brushing his slick skin. She healed his hand and his leg a hundred times each, but now she needs to see the wound, the depth and the scope and the severity—because this time it’s life and death.

Some of his organs are slashed. Instinctively, as if in a separate compartment of her mind, she can sense parted skin and torn blood vessels and feel pain washing over her in waves. She pushes his hand out of the way and places her palm over the wound.

Healing him has never been easy. She’s not Gold, where she can just wave her hand and make things appear at whim. Even yesterday, when it was only his hand and his leg and a kitchen knife, healing him had felt like dragging a wagon full of bricks. But now… now it feels like pulling a brick-filled wagon with sock feet on a tile floor. Like swimming against a raging current. Like fighting a snake, a ghost, something slippery and nebulous, something that writhes against her attempts to pin it down.

She patches him up as best she can, fumbling invisible stitches, skin regrowing, awkwardly raw and pink.

After a moment that feels like forever, Emma pulls back in defeat, thumping onto her butt when her legs refuse to hold her, panting.

“I can’t fix it all,” she says. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ll have to try again later.” She stares at the wound. Something isn’t right. Something hot and angry is trying to escape from him and she doesn’t know what to do about it.  “I’ve stopped the bleeding, though. It’s pretty well healed.”

Gold sits up a little straighter, pushing Emma’s hands away to place his own hand over the gash in his shirt. His side is still slick with blood, but Emma can see fresh skin bridging the space between his ribs. He applies pressure gingerly and grimaces. “It’s fine,” he says through grit teeth. “Help me up. We’ll deal with it after we retrieve Belle.”

She hoists him up, handing him his cane from the floor, and doesn’t bother correcting him about Jane.

She wipes her hands on her jacket (she’ll have to clean it anyway) and picks up Gold’s bloody knife. The ‘Rumplestiltskin’ on the blade looks insubstantial in some way, like it will scrub off when they clean the blood—but maybe she’s lightheaded from her magical efforts and it could be her imagination.

“We’ll have to tidy up before meeting Cora,” Gold says, pulling his jacket on and attempting to fasten buttons with shaking hands.

“I brought some hand wipes,” Emma says.

Gold looks sidelong at her.

Emma surveys the hall. The blood dripped across the floor, the long streak down the wall where Gold had slumped, her bloody handprints on the door and the lock. And then she shrugs, gesturing to the red staining the creases of his hands. “Better than nothing.”

He stares down at the back of his hand, his trembling fingers, as he lowers his hand gently onto the head of his cane. “Desperate times,” he says quietly.

“Come on,” Emma says. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and to her shock he doesn’t pull away. “They’re in my trunk. I’ll walk you out.”

To her surprise, he accepts her help the entire way to the parking lot.

(He takes the steps one at a time, and his jacket is buttoned crookedly, and she tries not to worry too much.)


	25. Chapter 25

When noon comes and goes, Emma begins to fidget.

She hates waiting at the best of times. And she hates waiting with Gold— stuffed into the passenger seat of the Cadillac, in the heat of a summer morning, with the prickly man beside her and no air conditioning to speak of— infinitely more than usual. Attempting not to squirm, she flicks her gaze between the line and the clock. When her patience runs out and she turns to face him, her jacket squeaks against the leather seat. 

“You’re sure they said noon?” she asks.

She can’t tell if the grimace on his face is the result of pain or her question. “Positive.”

Emma taps her fingers against the sleeve of her jacket and frowns. “After all this trouble, they’d better show up.”

“They will.” He sounds confident, but Emma can’t be sure. The man is hard enough to read under normal conditions, let alone adding blood loss and the stress of a hostage situation into the mix.

“Well, they’re making us sweat for it, that’s for sure.”

“Were you expecting it to be easy?” Maybe she can’t read Gold’s expression, but the tone in his voice oozes exasperation.

“No.” Emma frowns and scratches at a patch of blood leftover on the corner of her jacket. “Just less boring.”

He narrows his eyes at her, hand sliding under his jacket to press to the wound in his side.

She sighs and turns back to face the windshield. Okay, maybe it hasn’t been _boring_ , exactly. Maybe exhausting, or frustrating, or even agitating, but—

Before she has time to voice her thoughts, Gold moves. In a flurry of motion, he slides his hand free of his jacket and snatches his cane from the back seat (with a hiss through his teeth at the sudden movement). He practically launches himself out of the car.

Regina’s black Mercedes pulls up a short distance away, hanging well back from the far side of the spray painted orange line. Regina exits to driver’s seat to stand by one of the back doors, while Cora merely sits, watching Gold approach through the darkened windshield.

Emma takes a deep breath and climbs out of the car. She grabs the black knife box from where it lies on the floor by her feet, and then slams the door behind her with a noise that would have made Gold scold her in any other situation. He doesn’t even look at her when she takes her place at his side, eyes fixed on the Cadillac like it might fly away with the slightest breeze.

The door swings open, dress shoes click on pavement, and Cora stands. She wears a black blazer and a grey blouse, black dress shoes, red lipstick and her hair down around her face; she looks like her daughter. Though Regina is half a head taller, they both carry themselves with the same confident assurance. They smirk the same. They step on the ground like it should be thrilled at the privilege of carrying them, and glare a hole in anyone who might stand in their way.  Emma would have to be blind to miss the resemblance.

Whereas Gold stands a good two feet from the line, Cora positions herself with the toes of her shoes just brushing the edge of the orange paint. She smiles and inclines her head. “Hello Rumple. You look well.”

Gold’s fingers twitch against his cane. Emma has no doubt he’d incinerate the woman if presented with the opportunity.  “Where’s Jane?”

“In the— car.” She hesitates a moment over the word, with a vague gesture to the Mercedes. “She is unharmed, of course, as per our arrangement.” Her eyes drift to the box in Emma’s hands and linger.  “I trust you’ll honour your side of the bargain.”

“We both know that’s never been the problem.”

Cora’s smile bares too many teeth. 

“Let me see her,” Gold says.

Cora waves her hand at the box. “Show me the knife.”

He nods once, without looking at Emma. His eyes flick between Cora and Regina, who still stands near the back of the Mercedes.  

Emma nods back. She may have fought his control since day one, but the last thing she wants is to screw this up. He knows Cora, and he knows the knife, and he knows magic—so if he says show the knife, she’ll show the knife.  She opens the lid of the box and tilts it forward, displaying it like an auctioneer. Cora’s expression hardly changes, but her hungry eyes don’t leave the knife until Emma snaps the lid closed again.

Cora looks over her shoulder and twitches the fingers of her gloved hand. In response, Regina manhandles a bound Jane out of the car and half-directs half-pushes her to the line. Despite the ropes around her wrists and the dirty gag shoved between her teeth, Jane manages to glare at her captors.

“Are you hurt?” Gold’s voice never shakes, though it’s far quieter than Emma expects.

Jane shakes her head, tears spilling down onto her cheeks. Emma can see a small cut on the side of her face, and a bruise on the side of her neck.

“See?” Cora says. It has the distinctive ring of ‘I told you so.’

Regina narrows her eyes and glares at the box in Emma’s arms. “How do we know it’s the real knife?” she asks.

“It’s real,” Emma says, returning the glare.

Cora looks more thoughtful than worried. “Well, there’s one way to test it.” Her dark eyes flick to Emma. It feels like burning coals boring into her skull. “Use it.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. She glances sidelong to Gold, and then back to Cora. “How?”

Regina looks at her like she asked how to breathe oxygen. “You hold it. And then you tell him to do things.”

“I know _how_. I mean—what do you want him to do?”

Cora flexes her fingers—her gloves creak in the near silence. “Use your imagination, dear,” she says. “But make it convincing.”

“Humiliating,” Regina adds, “would also be preferable.”

Emma licks her lips and tries to think. She looks for answers from Gold, but he ignores her, face set and jaw tight. She looks to Jane, who only stares at Gold with horrified sympathy (and it’s so strange to see sympathy from someone who’s just spent the last three days in the hands of kidnappers). Cora and Regina both stare at her with predatory dark eyes.

Emma flips through and discards a hundred ideas before she comes up with something plausible. Finally, she pulls the dagger from the box, gripping in a suddenly-sweaty palm. She clears her throat and looks at Gold. “Strip,” she says. She imagines it’s the last thing any of them want to see, so hopefully it won’t last long.

Cora arches an eyebrow. Jane’s eyes widen (Emma can see a blush rise underneath the coat of dirt on her cheeks) and Regina looks about as disturbed as Emma feels. When Gold glares in her direction, Emma mouths ‘sorry’ and hopes he doesn’t hold this against her forever.

Without preamble, Gold unbuttons his jacket. He drops it onto the asphalt with a ‘whump’ of heavy fabric. He steps out of his shoes and steps onto the hot pavement in his sock feet.  (Emma notices belatedly that Jane is barefoot too, that she hasn’t worn shoes since emerging from the car, that she shuffles back and forth on the balls of her feet.) He removes his vest and tie one-handed, but then adds his cane to the growing pile of clothes. He hop-shuffles slightly to regain his balance on his good leg, and then unfastens his belt.

Emma turns away. A quick glance at Regina looks like she might be sick.

“That’s enough,” Cora says.

Emma clears her throat and gestures with the knife to the pile of clothes on the pavement, without really looking. “You can—uh, put those on again.” She shoves the knife back into the box and fastens it. Suddenly, she can’t wait to hand it over to Cora and Regina. She just hopes Gold is right: she hopes stabbing worked, and it has no power on him anymore, and he’s just stripping to get his girlfriend back. (If he’s not, they’re all screwed.)

“We’ll make the exchange now,” Cora says, without giving Gold a chance to do much more than fasten his belt and pick up his cane.

Emma steps up to the line. She’s nearly nose to nose with Regina.  “Send Jane across first,” she says.

“Don’t trust us?” Regina asks, raising an eyebrow. She grips the back of Jane’s shirt.

Emma doesn’t answer for a long moment. She wraps her arms tighter around the box, trying to peer through the woman’s bravado. Underneath the arrogance, Regina looks more defensive than disdainful, like a cornered animal.  “You know,” Emma says quietly, “Henry really hoped you’d changed.”

Regina’s lips curl into a snarl. “Don’t talk to me about my son.”

“ _Enough_.” Cora’s voice crashes between them like a breaking wave, extinguishing Regina’s eyes from fire to sodden ash in a hiss of steam. “Send her over, Regina.”

With only a moment’s hesitation, Regina pulls her hands away from Jane. Jane turns to look at them, eyes wide and suspicious. Regina says, “Well?”, and the other woman scurries across the line as fast as possible, straight into Gold’s arms.

Emma practically throws the box at Regina. “We’re not done here,” she says. “I won’t let this stand.” (She doesn’t know if she means Jane, or what Regina’s evil-mommy-issues are doing to Henry. Maybe both.)

“Of course not,” Cora says. She opens the box in Regina’s arms and trails a finger along the knife, red lips curling into a twisted smile. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other quite soon.” She snaps the box closed and starts back to the car.

When Regina trails after her mother, Emma almost manages to scrounge up sympathy. Almost.

Behind her, Jane talks to Gold in a quiet murmur Emma can only partially pick out. The Mercedes drives off, and Emma turns away, hands shoved into her pockets.

The two of them stand beside the discarded pile of clothes. Two short pieces of ropes lie untied on the pavement, and she wears Gold’s jacket loose over her grimy blouse. His hand rests on her arm, curled slightly around her bicep (as if afraid she might float away if he doesn’t touch her, but terrified she’ll crumble to dust if he does). Emma hears a ‘so sorry’ and a ‘Jane’ in Gold’s voice, and a ‘thank you’ in Jane’s—and then Jane’s willpower snaps like an overstretched elastic band and she stumbles forward into Gold’s arms.

He staggers back a few steps, unbalanced or uncertain, and then wraps his arms around her. She sobs into his chest, shoulders heaving. He runs his hand over her hair.

They hug a long, long time, and break apart only when Emma mumbles a ‘scuse me, sorry’ and skirts around them to gather Gold’s clothes from the street. She climbs into the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, trying not to drop Gold’s shoes, and tosses the clothes onto the floor beside her. The keys still dangle from the ignition.

She wishes she felt more excited— Jane’s return should be a happy occasion involving endless rounds of milkshakes with Ruby and Leroy—but Cora’s far from defeated, and there are still too many things that can go wrong. All she wants to do is crawl into bed, and she hasn’t even been stabbed or kidnapped today.

Gold’s legs are shorter than hers, so she adjusts his seat (and his mirrors, and the steering wheel, and the radio station, and the climate control), until Gold and Jane make their way to the car and climb into the back seat.

Emma looks at them both in the rear view mirror. “To the hospital?” she asks.

Gold glances to Jane, who hesitates and shakes her head.  “To my house,” Gold says. “We’ll draw a bath and a cook meal, and then call Doctor Whale.”

Gold grunts when Jane tightens her arms around him, muttering muffled thanks into his chest, but he doesn’t let go.

In the confined space of the car, Emma can smell sweat and unwashed clothes. Musty and mouldy, basements and rotting wood—but Gold presses his lips to the top of Jane’s head, and breathes her in like rose perfume.

"I’m so sorry,” Jane whispers.

“Don’t be,” Gold says. “Not now. Not for this.”

“Stay with me.”

Emma starts the car. Even over the rumble of the engine, she can hear a quaver in Gold’s voice.

“Until the day I die.”

 

xxxx

 

Jane spends the next several hours surrounded by a bustle of activity Gold claims as ‘rest’. Emma watches from the sidelines as the man fusses over her with remarkable efficiency: a bath, a meal of eggs and toast whipped up the old fashioned way (in the kitchen, wearing an apron and everything), clean clothes and a freshly made bed. Tea, a pile of books, and then finally a visit from Doctor Whale… though it takes a minute of proving his identity before Jane will let him in the room.

Emma watches, and stays out of the way, and notices a lot.

She notices how Gold hunches to the side when he thinks no-one’s looking, and how Jane holds the bed sheets over her bruised wrists and smiles to keep him from worrying too much. She can tell Whale feels guilty by the way he smiles too much and laughs too loud, and how treats Jane like she might sob or slap him at any given moment (though, of course, Jane does neither).  She can tell that Gold loves Jane. And she can tell that Jane needs some peace and quiet.

So spends the next couple of hours making phone calls—to David and Mary-Margaret and Henry, Ruby, Leroy, and finally Moe French) and taking a nap on Gold’s couch. And then she loads a pristinely polished silver tray up with two mugs and a carafe of hot chocolate and traverses the hallways of Gold’s ginormous mansion.

Jane’s room is one of many, in a long hallway where everything looks the same, but Emma soon spots the light of a reading lamp and regains her bearings. She taps the door with the side of her foot, simultaneously knocking and nudging it open. It creaks on its hinges, and Jane looks up from her book. She seems paler than usual, washed out by the light of the bedside lamp, but she smiles warmly.

“Emma,” she says, setting her book down on her lap, “come on in.”

Emma smiles back. “Thanks.” She sets a tray on the small table beside Jane’s bed (trying not to knock over the small tower of books that all-but dominates the surface). “Thought you might want a drink.”

“You’re sure you don’t need to get back to your family?”

“They’ll be fine. David’s a good cook, and I usually work late anyway.” Emma shrugs, and pours hot chocolate into the mugs. “Besides, if I go home, you know Mary Margaret will only yell at me for leaving you on your own. She’ll be over here, bringing you chicken soup and fluffing up your pillow in half a second.”

“I won’t be on my own,” Jane says. “Mister Gold is here.”

Emma hands her a mug, and then drags an armchair from the corner of the room, easing herself down into it. “Yeah.”

Jane stares into her hot chocolate. “He’s a good man, you know.”

“Yeah. It’s… just going to take a while to get used to.” Emma pours her own hot chocolate and drains half the mug immediately. It’s hot enough to scald her hands through the cup, and feels like drinking chocolate-flavoured magma, and she loves it. “I’m working on it.”

Jane blows across the lip of her mug and frowns when it spews steam back in her face. She holds the mug in one hand and smoothes the bed sheets over her legs with the other. “Thank you.”

“Hey, if Gold can cook a meal, the least I can do is whip you up a hot drink.”

“No, I mean—for saving me. Mister Gold said he couldn’t have done it without you.” Jane purses her lips and forces her eyes up to meet Emma’s. (They look haggard, bright blue ringed with circles dark as bruises, and sparkle with tears.) “So, thank you.”

“Any time.”  Emma raises her glass in a toast. “Though, hopefully this will be the last.”

“I can drink to that.”

They do. Despite grimacing at the heat, Jane gulps down her entire cup with a haste that stings of desperation.

Emma stares at her in shock. Conversation doesn’t resurface. It must have drowned in their hot chocolate.

Jane sets her mug atop a pile of books on the bedside table, and pulls her knees up to her chest. She fingers the dark bruises that ring her wrists, and hardly seems to notice. After the bustle of the last several days—rushing around and arguing (and stabbing and violence and tears)—the room seems exceptionally quiet.

Emma glances at the book Jane had been reading, face down on the bed with folded piece of paper for a bookmark. _Les Miserables_. She’s never been good at French, but it seems a good conversation piece—

Which she quickly abandons when she looks at Jane’s tight face.

“Are you okay?” Emma asks, resting her hand carefully on the very edge of the bed.

Jane shrugs, teary eyed, and then shakes her head. “Not really.”

“Is… there anything I can do?”

Jane shakes her head again. Her hair spills into her face and she wipes tears away with the back of her hand. “I’ll be fine. It’ll just take a bit of time.” She purses her lips and turns to Emma, fighting a smile. “I have some prior experience recovering from trauma.”

Emma smiles too, though she imagines it looks pretty weak. “Well… just let me know if you need anything.”

Jane puts her hand over Emma’s. “A friend?”

“I can do that,” Emma says, making a conscious effort not to pull her hand away. (Friends can tolerate other friends’ physical contact.)

“And maybe a refill of the hot chocolate?”

Emma laughs, and slides her hand away to grab Jane’s mug off the book pile. “Yeah.” She sets the mug on the tray and hoists the carafe. “I can do that too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second last chapter of part two! Part three will resume in Gold's POV. It will probably consist of about 5 chapters, only one of which is currently written because I have been busy and am a terrible procrastinator. I will likely require a few weeks hiatus in order to finish up the story, but I will do my best to write quickly! Thanks for sticking with me so far, and hope you enjoy the next chap. :)


	26. Chapter 26

Against the odds, and despite the trauma, Jane has outstripped all of Emma’s expectations.

Emma comes by every day. And every day, Jane opens the door with a smile and a determined chip of ice lodged in her eyes. She’s not going to hide. She’s not the timid woman in a hospital gown—not anymore. Maybe she’s not ready to move back into the library apartment just yet, she tells Emma, but she’s not an invalid and she doesn’t want to be treated like one.

Instead, she organizes Gold’s knick-knacks and dusts his shelves. She cooks, cleans, reads, and reschedules the library Grand Opening for two weeks Saturday. She chats with Archie and forgives Doctor Whale. And when she talks, there’s something harder about her, a little stronger, fiery and determined and brave.

By the end of the week, Jane is doing better.

Gold is not.

Every day, after Jane opens the door with that defiant smile and chats about her day, Emma wanders off to deliver a strong dose of magic to the knife wound in Gold’s side. She tracks him down (wherever he’s skulking, it doesn’t matter) and slaps a hand to his ribcage. She rallies her emotions and concentrates and feels the heat build in her palms… and by the next morning there’s another basketful of bloody bandages for her to magically launder.

The magic won’t stick.

Despite her best efforts, the healing slides off like duct tape on wet metal. They both know something’s wrong (how can they not when he’s leaking worse than severed brake lines?) but he puts her off, telling her not to worry. Saying everything will be fine. But baskets full of bandages do not inspire great confidence—and as usual, she doesn’t believe him further than she can spit. So, by the end of the week, she decides to confront him.

She finds him at his spinning wheel, in his shirtsleeves and holding a clump of wool. The room is dim, lit only by the morning light from the windows—but she doesn’t need overhead lights to see that the thread he spins remains a simple white, and the dark stain on the left side of his shirt glistens red.

She crosses her arms and leans against his worktable. “You know, this is getting ridiculous.”

The corner of his mouth twists up. His foot keeps the wheel turning with creaky rhythm. His eyes never leave the fibres of wool and the length of twisted thread.   “You don’t approve of handicrafts, Miss Swan?”

“Your shirt’s soaked through. Again.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

A raised eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

For the first time since she entered the room, Gold lifts his eyes to her. “I have grown quite practiced at ignoring annoyances, Miss Swan.”

“Bleeding out is a bit more than an inconvenience, Gold.”

He shrugs.

The man may be friendly as a jagged piece of scrap, but he stabbed himself (more than once) to save his girlfriend from kidnapping. In Emma’s books, that’s earned him some brownie points. And just a bit too much respect to let his evasions stand.  “So…?”

His wheel continues to creak, spinning at a whirlwind pace. He returns his attention to the wool in his hand, twisting, drawing the thread tight, turning useless fibers into something valuable. “Well, I _was_ stabbed.”

“Not buying it. Let me see the wound,” Emma says.

His foot stops pumping. He places a hand on the wheel. The silence sounds like a cracked whip.  “Why?”

Arms crossed, back pressed against his worktable, she refuses to shift under his gaze. “Because I want to.”

“No.”

“I want to see why the magic isn’t working.”

“You’ve been doing everything you can,” he says.

“Yeah, I have. So why aren’t you better?”

“You can’t possibly do anything more, Sheriff.” He lifts a hand from the wheel to his heart in a seemingly sincere gesture. But her eyes only follow the line of his arm, and immediately fixate on the blood staining his side. “I promise. I’m as well as can be expected.”

“Okay, so why aren’t you upstairs frolicking with Jane instead of hiding down here.”

“Frolicking?”

Emma waves a hand. “Whatever it is you two do. It doesn’t matter.” She pushes herself away from the table and takes a step forward, hand outstretched towards the blood on his shirt. “The point is—you’re hiding something. You can either tell me what it is, or find a new nurse. I’ve got better things to do than your laundry.”

 He spends a long time considering her words. An agonizingly long time, where she can hear every growl of the furnace and every chirp of the birds outside, every creak of her jacket and boots. Her pulse pounds away in her temples, her throat, and he just sits with one hand on the wheel and another fisted in a lump of wool.

He nods, brows creasing, and says, “Your magic won’t work.”

“Yeah, thanks, I noticed.”

“I mean at all.”

“That’s not funny, Gold.”

“It’s not a joke.”

But if this is true, it _is_ a joke—though, not a particularly funny one.

Because he’s dying on her after all the crap they went through. Because Emma watched him stab himself for hours just to learn how to heal him. Because the memories have kept her up at nights and she can’t forget the sound of knife on bone. Because she’s been here, every day, slapping her hand to his wound, always thinking a happy ending lurked just around the corner.  (And that’s the real laugh, the tragic end to her own fairy tale hope.)

After all this, how dare he?

“I- I don’t believe you,” she says. She’s a skeptic. Always has been. He can’t just _tell_ her something like this and expect her to go along with him blindly. (Denial is so much better than the alternative.)

Dropping the wool to the floor, Gold stands. He turns sideways, until the ugly red stain stares her in the face, and then tugs at the corner of his shirt. It pulls free from his belt and his trousers, and he lifts it, baring a stretch of skin smeared with red. A little higher. A peek of bone. A flash of red too bright even for blood. An angry wound with puckered edges…

Emma backs up into the worktable and plants her hands on it, propping herself up to bolster suddenly wobbly legs. She shakes her head.

Black tendrils curl out from the gash, tracing a cruel wallpaper of veins outward and up his side, curling onto chest.

Emma’s eyes widen. “What the –”

“Part of my curse,” he says. “The rules of the knife.” He runs a finger along one of the black lines, grimacing at his own touch. “Sooner or later, it will kill me.”

She can’t look away from the tendrils, the slow fatal march of a black ink tattoo. Her throat feels like she swallowed a cactus. Her words leave her mouth sounding scratched. “But— I thought you had a plan.”

Gold lets his shirt fall, and then holds up his hand like a scale, weighing his next words. “Jane is free.” He lifts his other hand. “The town will be safe from the Dark One’s power.” A shrug. “So my plan worked.”

“Didn’t your plan involve you… not dying?”

He smiles, sadly. “I never said anything of the sort.”

Emma wants to throw something. She wants to leave. She wants to throw something at him and then leave. But she settles for pacing up and down the length of the table, arms crossed tightly over her chest.  “So now what?”

“I settle my affairs and teach you magic to protect the town. In the meantime, you keep me alive until you can’t.”

She scowls. “How much time do you have?”

Gold shrugs. He tucks his shirt back into his trousers. “Two months. Maybe three.”

Emma chews on her thumbnail as she paces. “Does Jane know?”

“No.”

“You should tell her.” Her jaw tightens and she curls her hands into fists, clenched tight around her jacket.  “She’ll find out. And then you’ll regret it.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m used to regrets." Gold’s voice sounds so strained it forces Emma to turn. She watches him lift his cane from beside the wall and lean on it with almost exaggerated slowness, stares at the thin line of his mouth and the dark circles around his darker eyes. When he steps forward, she can see lines on his face she’s never noticed before, a fevered glaze of pain in his eyes, sweat beading just beneath his hairline. “Now, are you going to heal me, or not?”

She bites her lip, frowning at his bloody shirt. Frowning, because she knows he has a basket of bloody laundry tucked away in the corner of his cellar. Frowning, because she always thought he was invincible, and now he’s dying.  “Yeah.”

She moves around to his side and kneels. Grimacing, she places a hesitant palm on the warm, wet bloodstain. His skin feels like a bonfire beneath the thin shirt.

Emotions.

Fear is an emotion, and anger is an emotion, and sadness is an emotion, and bafflement is an emotion—and she’s swirling with all of them, a cocktail of a thousand feelings that whirlpools through her head. More than strong enough to heal him—if he wasn’t cursed—and strong enough to do all his bloody laundry and all the neighbour’s laundry besides. Strong enough to do a good job.

But ‘good’ might only last the day, and ‘good’ still leaves his wound red and raw with the blackness creeping in.

She does what she can—magics away the stains on her palm and the red from his clothes, the fever from his skin, the sweat on his face, tries to keep the creeping blackness  from marching ever closer to fatality. It leaves her shaking and leaves him panting.  She struggles not to lose her breakfast on his shoes.

“Well,” he says, swallowing hard, “you certainly don’t give half measures.” He twists his hand on his cane and straightens a little, stretching out his ribs with a smaller grimace than before. “Keep that up, I might even last four months.”

“Your compliments could use some work,” Emma said, managing to stand without grabbing his arm to haul herself up. “But thanks.” She breathes out, brushing non-existent dust off her jeans, off the navy jacket that suddenly feels heavy as a lead blanket. She rolls her shoulders and tries to look casual. “Anyway,” she says, “I gotta get going. I owe David a weekend shift. Tell Jane I said hi.”

If he ever decides to talk to the woman again, instead of just sneaking around hiding his mortality.

“Of course,” he says.

She turns to leave.

“Oh, Miss Swan?”

She turns back.

“I almost forgot—” He holds a finger up, and she knows he did no such thing. His timing’s too good to be an accident. “—I’m calling in the favour you owe me.”

“Hey, if you want me to heal you—it doesn’t have to be a favour, Gold. I’m not doing it because I owe you anything.”

“But, as we both know, you do owe me something. And here’s the price.” His smile slips, a hitch of breath and a shift of eyes before he speaks. “Don’t tell Jane.”

It takes a conscious effort to close her mouth. “What?”

“Don’t tell Jane that I’m dying. Don’t tell her I was stabbed.”

“I’m going to be here _every day_ , Gold. You think she won’t ask?”

Gold gives a one handed shrug, still leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m giving you magic lessons.”

“What if she doesn’t believe me?”

“You’re a smart woman—you’ll figure it out.”

Emma runs her fingers through her hair roughly, pushing it from her face. She sighs “You know what, fine.” She tugs at her jacket, fumbling with the zipper with no real intent. “It’s not my business. But don’t expect me to defend you if she finds out and decides to kill you herself.”

Gold’s mouth twitches. Emma can’t tell if it’s meant to be a smile or a frown. “And don’t think you can get around it by telling anyone else, either.”

Emma rolls her head back, staring at the ceiling. She needs a strong cup of coffee. And maybe a bottle of bourbon.  “ _Fine_ , Gold.”

“Look on the bright side, Miss Swan. You won’t need to keep the secret for long.”

His words feel like termites gnawing a hole in her stomach—she’s as numbly wooden as August, and just as much a liar. Caught between doing what’s right and keeping a promise—two invisible forces that hold her more forcefully than ropes around her wrists.

She takes the stairs up from Gold’s basement to his yard, foot by foot, step by step, and keeps her eyes on the path all the way to the gate. She doesn’t want to see through the window. She doesn’t want to see him standing there, a dead man spinning wool, or to see Jane waving at her from inside the house. She doesn’t want to lie. She wants to get in her car, and drive to Granny’s, and get a coffee. And then she wants crawl into a hole for the next four months, until Gold’s time runs out and she has to pick up the pieces of the town.

But then again…she’s gotten used to Gold. Seeing him every day, day in and day out, whether she wants to or not. He’s stubborn as she is, and twice as frustrating. She doesn’t even like him (much), and she’d be crushed to find him dead one morning without so much as warning. Jane deserves better than silence. She deserves to know.

Emma may not be allowed to tell her, exactly. But Emma’s been learning more than magic from Gold. She’s learned about words, implications and suggestions and legalisms. Subtleties and misdirection.

And most of all, the cardinal rule of a deal:

There’s always a loophole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for reading and sticking with me so far! Hope you enjoyed part two. A few pieces of news:
> 
>  
> 
> 1: I accidentally lied to you all. Part three was originally (since the conception of the plot) intended to be from Gold’s POV. But I wrote the first chapter, and it just wasn’t working for me. So then I revised part three to work from Jane’s POV, REWROTE the first chapter, and shall carry on from there. So it will be from Jane’s POV now. Hopefully the change is for the best.
> 
> 2: I will have to go on a short hiatus to finish writing part three (which would have been done a lot sooner if I didn’t have to switch POVs, ugh), but I won’t be long. I expect part three to consist of 5 chaps and an epilogue, and I’m currently finished writing 1.5 of them. I want to start posting again by the 4th of February. That gives me a month to finish up.
> 
> 3: The Rumbelle fandom is holding fanfic awards called ‘The Espenson Awards’. A fic requires five nominations for a category to receive an official nomination. I’ve never been nominated before, and I would absolutely love if FMN was nominated for the ‘Amnesia!Belle’ category, and possibly the ‘Best Courtship’ category as a secondary category. Feel free to also nominate any of my other oneshots or drabbles as well, if you’d like. Anonymous messages aren’t accepted, so you will need a tumblr to vote, but if anyone is willing, I’d greatly appreciate it! You can find info, dates, voting, etc. at theespensonawards(dot)tumblr(dot)com. Nominations begin Jan 10 and end on Jan 18, and voting takes place between Feb 7 and 8. Don't forget to vote for your fave fics from other authors too!
> 
> Thank you so much for your support! See you all soon.
> 
> -Robynne


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back. :) Sorry I'm a week late-- I ended up having a midterm last Tuesday and things just became craziness. If you really want an in-depth list of excuses (including, but not limited to writers' block, holidays, school, hockey, knee injuries), I can give them-- but you might be better off with just a 'sorry' and an 'I'll try not to be late again'. Thanks for sticking with me, and hope you enjoy part three!

**Part Three: Finding Secrets and Fresh Starts**

Jane falls asleep at midnight, and wakes at four.

For her, it’s a good night’s sleep.

The master bedroom smells of citrus cleaning solution and age _,_ like a museum (or the library), all dark wood and soft yellow light and large open windows. Gold sleeps just down the hall, when he sleeps at all, and the sound of his cane offers the comfort of a wordless lullaby. The room is on the second floor. It has three lamps and no lock. It’s as different from the asylum and the cabin basement as possible, unless she wants to start sleeping outside.

At first, it helped.

But nightmares don’t stop just because she’s safe.

Now she’s back to her usual routine, catching sleep when and where she can—a constant blur of drowsy teas and soothing music and a world of nocturnal baking.  

Buried deep in thick coverlets, with all three lamps _and_ the overhead light burning to chase away the shadows, Jane reads until panic subsides. When her locked muscles loosen and her heart stops racing, she rouses herself, pulls on a sweater, slides into a pair of slippers. Flicking on lights as she goes, she sneaks downstairs into the kitchen. Stainless steel, black granite counters, dark wood floors. Radiant overhead potlights. By now, it’s as familiar to her as any place in Storybrooke.

By the time Rum limps into the kitchen—coming through the garden door, like Jane knew he would—she stands at the counter, elbow-deep in a mixing bowl. She waves with the wooden spoon as he closes the door behind him.

He looks tired.

So does she.

She wonders what she must look like through his eyes— hair in a messy bun, dressed in too-large pyjamas and a grey hooded sweatshirt, spattered with flour. In all likelihood, he doesn’t mind. (He’s seen her look far worse.)

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she says back.

“I—didn’t expect you up so early.”

She shrugs, and vigorously stirs the batter. “I’m making pancakes.” The wooden spoon clacks against the plastic sides of the mixing bowl. She eyeballs the mixture before adding a mountainous handful of chocolate chips. “I hope you’re hungry.”

He stands, framed by the darkness seen through the glass garden door, and rubs his thumb against the handle of his cane. “I could eat.”

“Good. Because I’m making lots.”

He takes a step towards her. “Do you need a hand?”

She shakes her head and carries the bowl to the stove, where a large frying pan sits over flame. “No thank you.” She tips the batter from the bowl to the frying pan in careful pancake-sized blobs. They sizzle, filling the kitchen with a radio-static hiss. “Just the company.”

Just someone else awake at 5:15 AM, making noise and breathing and rustling around to dispel the darkness.

Rum nods and makes his way to the kitchen table, which she’s already set with two plates and two glasses of orange juice. He eases himself into the hard wooden seat, and hangs his cane on the back of his chair. “Did you manage to sleep at all?” he asks.

Jane grabs a spatula from the counter beside her and pokes at the batter. The smell of pancakes and melted chocolate begins to drift through the air. “Some.”

“Not well, I take it.”

She half-turns to him, throws him a half-smile over the curve of her shoulder. “There are restful nights, and there are breakfast at 5 AM nights.”

He smiles, but the expression looks forced—a stretching of the face like a reflection of a smile. Out of place somehow, dogged and empty in a haggard face. The top button of his collar is undone, with no tie to be seen. He looks about as good as she feels.

She narrows her eyes and brandishes her spatula at his chest. His eyes seem to flinch (as if it were a knife), and she drops her hands. “Besides,” she says, “you’re not exactly one to talk.”

He lifts his fingers to the dark circles under his eyes and smiles again, though this time his expression seems softer. “It seems we make a good pair, Miss French.”

“It appears so, Mister Gold.” She smiles back at him before turning back to flip the pancakes.  The half-cooked batter hisses against the hot iron.

Despite the sounds of cooking, and the occasional quiet clink of Rum’s ring against a glass of orange juice, the world fades to quiet.  She can’t escape it. Her life is silence, punctuated by too much noise (screaming and sirens and the sound of a gunshot). Her life is darkness, punctuated by too much light (glaring hospital brightness and the hot summer sun after long days in a dank cellar). All she wants is peace.

Maybe she asks too much by searching for the middle ground. Maybe extremes are the way of the world, and she’s flailing against the bedrock of natural order.

She decides to keep trying anyway.

 “I’m planning on going to the library today,” she says. She doesn’t look behind her, but she can hear him stir at the sudden conversation. She begins to transfer the pancakes to a plate waiting nearby. “I’m pretty well finished tidying around here, and I think fresh air might do me some good. Just for a change of scenery. You know.”

They’ve been out before—but it’s always been _them_ , and never just her. By her choice. For protection, and comfort, and company. But he can’t go with her forever.

Jane pours more batter onto the hissing pan and then turns to him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He sets his glass of orange juice down. He shakes his head slowly, lips pursed. “You’re free to do as you please, Jane. You’re my guest, not my prisoner.”

“I know,” she says, twisting her spatula between her hands, “but I hate to leave you alone.”

He smiles and spreads his hands. “I’m quite used to it.”

Her spatula stops.

He didn’t mean it like that. He means he is used to being alone (and maybe he _is_ used to her leaving him, but he didn’t mean it like that). But it still feels like a bucket of water to the face.

Rum realizes his mistake. He opens his mouth, fumbles at the words, but her spatula resumes its fluttering motion around the pancakes, and she shrugs as if to shake off dust from her shoulders.

She smiles to reassure him (and herself), and presses on. Like she always does.

“I’d like to reschedule the grand opening for the end of the month, and I have a list of things to get finished first. I’m very thankful to you, for letting me stay here…”

“But you want to move back,” Rum says. “Of course.”

“It will cut down on the commute time. And all my things are there. And the protection spell…” She hadn’t quite meant to say that part out loud. She clears her throat and wrings the life out of her spatula. “It’s nothing personal, Rum.”

 “Of course not.” He sips at his orange juice again, face calm but unreadable. “I’m not offended in the least.”

“Do you promise?”

He inclines his head and spreads his hands. “You’re a free woman, Jane. I won’t hold you back.”

She narrows her eyes. “Stop being so self-deprecating.” She turns back to the pancakes and shimmies the spatula under one, lifting the edge to check on its progress. She speaks as she flips them over, one by one. “You’re not holding me back.”

“I doubt many things can,” he says.

She shrugs, but when she looks at him, she can feel the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Manacles, for one. Ropes,” she says. “Asylums.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Now who’s being self-deprecating?”

She defends herself by ignoring him in favour of flipping the pancakes, and by not looking at him when she asks her question. “So… you’re sure you don’t mind my leaving?”

 “I’m sure,” he says.

(She’s not sure if she likes his answer—but it’s what she needs to hear.)

 “I’ll go on Friday,” she says.

“Whatever you think is best.”

She frowns down at the pancakes until they finish cooking. Then she turns off the burner, stacks the pancakes atop the others on the plate, and carries it towards the table.

“Rum?” she says.                                                                                                                  

His eyes flick up to meet hers.

“I know you’ve been busy lately.” She slides the pancakes onto the table, and takes the seat across from him. “But… you’ll come visit, won’t you?”

For a moment, he looks like she’d tripped him with his own cane.  His hands, folded on the table, go very still.

She doesn’t think she’s asking much. She knows he’s been busy—and she knows he needs his space—and she hasn’t complained when he disappears into the cellar to spin and forgets to eat or say goodnight. But he promised to stay with her. (And she needs him.)

“Please, Rum,” she says.

His curious resistance crumbles.

“Yes, of course,” he says. His voice is tight, and his eyes are dark (sad and brown), but he nods and reaches one of his hands half-way across the table. “How could I stay away?”

She slides her hand onto his.

They finish breakfast in smiles and silence.

 

xxxx

 

Jane leaves on Friday, as discussed.

He drives her to the library in his Cadillac, with two cardboard boxes and one suitcase packed into the back seat. She tunes his antique radio to a classic rock station and taps her fingers on her lap, humming along. He wears sunglasses. They roll down the windows.

He walks her up to her rooms with her(to check the closets for monsters), and makes tea while she unpacks—and shows her how to adjust the air conditioner… which she promptly turns off in favour of opening every window in sight. They eat canned soup with cookies for dessert, because she has no groceries to speak of, and everything in her refrigerator is spoiled.

She turns her radio on and fills the apartment with jazz.

And she is happy.

(Seeing him smiling back at her, she thinks he might be happy too.)

She just hopes it will last.


	28. Chapter 28

Down the Rabbit Hole, the air smells of smoke. A jukebox in the corner wails over the rumble of conversation, the clink of glasses, the crash of pool balls (and the accompanying shouts of joy or dismay from the pool table participants). The air feels too close and too heavy, and their table is sticky, and the bartender smiles at her with a sort of bemused patience (as if she doesn’t belong).

She doesn’t like it.

But they’ve all been busy with work, and it’s the only place open so late on a weeknight, (and if she stays in the apartment alone a moment longer she might splinter into a thousand shards of solitude and unravel into a spool of crushing panic and might not be able to find her way back out). So she sits in the corner with her purse on her lap, and watches as Ruby strides expertly across the floor, carrying a plate of French fries to share.

“Say what you want about this place,” her friend says, sauntering up to the table and smiling as she slides the plate onto the sticky tabletop, “but they’ve got magicians working the deep fryer.”

For a moment, Jane wonders if she’s serious. (In a town with Rumplestiltskin and spinning wheels and straw-turned-gold necklaces, if it’s possible that magicians really work the night shift at a dive frying potatoes.) But then Ruby smiles and slides into the booth, and Jane knows it’s just a turn of phrase.

“Don’t take my word for it,” Ruby says, shoving the plate closer. “Dig in.”

They look greasy and they probably need ketchup, but she trusts Ruby’s taste (in food, if not location) and so she picks a particularly long fry from the pile and bites it in half.

“So…” Ruby says, looking at Jane with eyes widened in sudden sympathy, “…how bad is it?”

Jane covers her mouth with her hand as she chews and shakes her head. “No, it- it’s really good, actually.”

“I wasn’t talking about the fry.”

Jane frowns, chewing more slowly. She swallows and takes a long sip of her drink. It goes down rough, though not unpleasantly, and she suppresses a cough. (It may be called Long Island Iced Tea—but tea it is not.) “Then… what?”

Ruby’s drink of choice is a cocktail of some sort, tall and red and smelling of fruit. She stirs it around with the plastic straw, rattling ice cubes. “You’re having a fight with Gold, aren’t you?”

“No,” Jane says.

Ruby raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.”

“So you’re spending your Saturday night with me and Emma— at a bar— because everything’s fine?”

Jane washes down the lump in her throat with a long sip of not-tea.

“And you’ve been compulsively checking your phone for the last quarter hour… because everything’s fine?”

The phone sits accusingly on the tabletop, lying atop a folded paper napkin beside her drink. Jane taps her fingernail against the side of her glass.

Ruby smiles, not unkindly, and sips her cocktail through her plastic straw.

“We’re not fighting,” Jane says.

Ruby smiles, not unkindly. “Mmhmm.”

“We just… haven’t talked much in a while.” She bites her bottom lip. “At all.”

“And how long is lately?”

It feels like an admission to speak the words (but it feels like a relief too, the release of something caged and yearning to be free). “Two weeks.” She shoots a glance to the phone on the napkin. “He won’t return my calls.”

“Is there a reason?”

Jane spreads her hands. “I don’t know. He won’t pick up his phone.” She tries to keep her voice level, but her tone sounds disheartened against the backdrop of levity. She hates how helpless it makes her feel—how alone, despite Ruby and a room full of strangers.

“Maybe… maybe he’s just trying to give you some space?” Ruby’s smile is a little too wide—a little too hard around the eyes. But Jane knows she’s trying to be gracious, for her sake, if not for Gold’s.

“I don’t want space,” Jane says. “I don’t know what I want…” (She wants pancake breakfasts, hugs that smell like expensive cologne, conversation, and sunshine, and a good night’s sleep, and for her life to finally go right for once.) “…but it isn’t space.”

“Okay...” She draws the word out. “Maybe _he_ just needs space?”

Jane wouldn’t blame him, if he did. He’s a private man. She invaded his house. She ate his food. She tidied his knickknacks. She’s a woman who has no memories, stays up all night cooking, and gets kidnapped a few times a year for good measure. He’s a private man, and maybe he’s decided she’s too much trouble.

“Maybe,” Jane says.

Ruby slides a hand across the table, glancing to Jane’s face for confirmation before giving Jane’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “Hey, it’ll be alright. I’m sure you two will sort it out.”

“I hope so.”

Ruby flashes a smile, toothy and open. She lets go of Jane’s hand, leans back in her seat, and slaps her palms down on the table hard enough to rattle the ice in the glasses. “And if he’s still playing hard to get in a couple weeks, I’ll tell Granny to withhold his morning coffee until he comes to his senses.”

Jane laughs. Mister Gold without his morning coffee looks almost as rough as Emma without hers.

“I know it’s hard, but try not to think about it. Just for tonight. Tonight is girls’ night.” Ruby scowls and leans over to catch a glimpse of the entrance. “As soon as Emma gets here.”

Jane glances once at her phone. No sign of life. She drops it into her purse and yanks the zipper closed. “Thanks Ruby.”

Ruby smiles at her.

Emma shows up a half hour later (after they’ve chatted their way through one drink each, and devoured the whole plate of fries). The blonde woman picks her way towards the back corner, collecting odd glances and nervous stares from some of the less reputable patrons, who obviously recognize her as the sheriff. When she reaches the booth, she tosses her car keys onto the table and plops down on the bench beside Jane.

“I need loud music and a strong drink,” Emma says.

Ruby grins. “You’re in luck. We can provide both.”

“Long day?” Jane asks.

Emma groans and leans forward, burying her face in the crook of her arms on the tabletop. “You have no idea.”

“Would French fries help?” Ruby asks.

Emma sits up and manages to look slightly more alert. “And a double scotch. Pretty please.”

“Back in a jiffy,” Ruby says, flashing her best waitress smile, and wanders over to the bar to place an order.

Emma groans and leans her head against the back of the booth. Dark circles hang beneath her eyes. She looks like she got into a fist-fight with sleep and lost.

Jane folds her hands on her lap and taps her fingers against her knees. “So… how are magic lessons?”

“Do you mean how are magic lessons going, or how is Gold doing?” Emma asks without bothering to open her eyes.

“Um—both, I guess?”

“Gold is fine,” Emma says.

Jane nods slowly and repeats, “Fine?”

“He’s…” She gives a vague shrug. “He’s Gold.” She opens her eyes and glances sideways, as if measuring her words by the severity of Jane’s expression. “Cranky, unsociable, elusive…”  Emma trails off and shrugs, looking uncertain of what else to say. “He’s inventorying his shop.”

 “I know,” Jane says. “I can see him from the window of the library sometimes.” (She has no reason to blush—the buildings are right across the street from one another.)

“I take it he hasn’t called you back yet?”

Jane purses her lips. She shakes her head.

Emma rolls her eyes and mumbles something that sounds a lot like ‘creep.’

Jane lifts her glass to her lips. Ice cubes jam against her teeth, and melted ice water dribbles into her mouth.

Neither of them speak. Emma can’t decide where to look. She glances from the table, to Jane, to Ruby standing next to the bar, to the empty plate of French fries.

Jane stares down at her glass. Her lipstick left a printed a copy of her mouth on the rim, and she smears it with her thumb. Tears prick her eyes, melting ice cubes into indistinguishable blurriness. It seems foolish to cry, when her life is marching forward and her eyes have been dry for days—but uncertainty corrodes her already pocked and pitted bravery.

“Is he angry with me?” Jane asks.

Emma turns, frowning. 

Jane swallows and presses on, before Emma can answer. Questions (unasked because the phone has remained unanswered) bubble up inside her, frothing into near panic. “Has he talked to you? Has he told you what’s wrong? Is it something I’ve done?”

Emma holds up her hands, cutting Jane off. “Hey, hey,” she says. Her voice achieves steadiness, a rock against the surging torrent of emotion. “It’s nothing you’ve done.”

“Is it something I haven’t done? Did something happen when I was away?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Then what—”

For someone who usually displays only three expressions to the viewing public, (pleased, tough, and sarcastically irritated), Emma’s face shifts through a surprising range of emotions. Sympathy melds with compassion, merges with worry. Her eyes tighten and she flashes through irritation and scorn and betrayal and anger (and Jane hopes she isn’t angry with _her_ , hopes it’s not her fault, hope she’s not responsible for steadily driving her friends away).

Emma folds her arms across her chest and takes a deep breath. “It’s nothing to do with you, Jane.” Her face settles into something sympathetic and worried— “He’s probably just having a rough time without his magic.”

Jane blinks. “What?”

Emma shrugs. “I mean, I could do just fine without the stuff—more than fine, actually—but he’s been using it forever. Must feel like losing an arm or something. It’s still not okay for him to run off on you like this, but I guess it makes some sense—”

“Wait. What do you mean he doesn’t have magic?”

Jane isn’t sure why, but triumph glitters in Emma’s eye when she says, “Oh. Right. He didn’t want you to know.” 

“What— happened?” Her words are marbles in her mouth, tripping up her tongue and threatening to choke her.

Emma shrugs. “He gave it up.”

Jane closes a hand around the braided gold of her necklace, running her thumb along its edge.

Memories of fireballs and healing and spinning straw threaten to crumble away, like they never happened. (Except they _did_ happen, because she isn’t crazy.) And Mister Gold did these things—and she saw him, and everyone knows Mister Gold has magic.

 But not anymore.

No more forget-me-nots from roses.

“Why?” she asks, barely managing to speak above a whisper. “He loved his magic.”

And when she’d stopped being afraid of it, a part of her loved it too.

“He traded it for something he loved more,” Emma says. She looks straight at Jane— not accusatory, but intense—and smiles.

(It explains everything.)

Jane manages to return the smile, though her lips tremble beneath red lipstick. 

And she holds the smile through the night: when Ruby comes back with another plate of fries and another round of drinks, when they drag Emma away from the table to play endless rounds of pool, when the music pounds her head like fists and drums against her temples and everyone laughs too loud (including her). When midnight rolls past and she forgets about the phone in her purse, and she forgets about the blame in her stomach—and she forgets how painful high heels can be after long hours of walking (so she kicks them off and walks barefoot on the cool sidewalk, arm in arm with Emma and Ruby, back to the library).

But then they leave. And she closes the door. And she walks, barefoot and a little tipsy, up the stairs to an empty apartment. Not bothering to flick on the lights (the moon gives her just enough light), she tosses her shoes and her purse on her bed. A moment later, she joins them, sprawling out face down on her mattress.

The world tilts around her, an abandoned spinning office chair. Her phone beeps once in her purse, a strangled ‘low battery’ whine.

For just a moment, she had forgotten how desperately she misses the sound of his voice.

 

xxxx

 

Jane didn’t mean to stay so late. Jane didn’t mean to drink so much. But the problem with alcohol is that it isn’t like tea. With tea, she drinks too much and has a caffeine buzz and cleans the house and laughs at silly things and doesn’t sleep well (but she doesn’t ever sleep well, so she doesn’t mind). Alcohol makes her giggle at silly things too, but everything seems fuzzy around the edges, and she wants to sleep _too much_ (only sleep gives her nightmares so she fights it until her head aches with the effort).

 The problem with alcohol is that after she pries herself up off the mattress, she finds herself staring at the phone at 4 AM, with Rum’s number on speed dial and guilt eating through each coherent thought her brain manages to construct.

She wishes she could avoid this moment. She wishes she could leave it alone for ages, for days, for a hundred practice sessions with her own voicemail box—she needs time to write it down, to build up the courage. But _not knowing_ feels like a bullet in the shoulder, and if she waits she might lose the nerve.

(The problem with alcohol is that it makes her feel brave.)

She jams her thumb down on the ‘1’ button, and folds herself into the armchair by the window. The lamp beside her cuts an orange-yellow swath through the darkness. The phone rings.

And rings. And rings. And rings.

And then it stops.

“This is Gold,” the voice on the phone says. “Leave a message.”

Her jaw tenses. Her hand tightens around the phone. For endless long seconds, her breath crackles over the phone speaker.

“H—hi, Mister Gold. It’s Jane. I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry, for everything. I know how hard all this has been on you. Losing Belle, helping me.”

Speaking feels like stumbling, like tripping and falling and she can’t seem to find her way over the tangle of words. And maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe the sleep deprivation, or maybe it’s just _panic_ because this might be her last chance to speak with him.

“I didn’t—mean to be kidnapped. I should have been more careful. I understand if you’re angry, or if understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore. I just hope you know that it wasn’t my intention  for—any of this to happen.” She wipes her lips on the back of her hand (lipstick long since rubbed away), and closes her fingers over the arm of her chair. “I’m sorry you lost your magic,” she says. “I hope you won’t hate me forever.”

She turns off the lamp, and reaches down onto the floor to grab a handful of a burgundy fleece blanket. She pulls the blanket up to her chin.

“Okay then,” she says. “Okay. Bye.”

She wipes the corner of her eyes on her sleeve, and shuts the phone.

 


	29. Chapter 29

Jane stands in the lobby of the library, palms flat against the cool metal of the double front doors. Outside, the rumble of anticipatory conversation fills the morning air. Behind her, the lobby bustles as a fleet of her friends run last minute errands.

Mary Margaret touches up the decorations and affixes ‘librarian’s choice’ cards to the front of shelves, wielding a roll of cellophane tape like she’ll wrap up anyone who gets in her way. David stands outside the door, arms folded bouncer-style for crowd control. (A glance out the window surprises her by proving there is a crowd to control, though not a tremendously large one). Emma double checks the computer system. Henry helps Ruby and Granny set up the refreshment table, and Leroy helps himself to the punch.

Today is opening day.

Today, she succeeds.

Footsteps click on the tile floor behind her, and Jane spins around to find Emma approaching.

Emma smiles, and holds out a paper plate stacked with quartered sandwiches, apparently snatched from the refreshment table. She looks every bit as relaxed as Jane is tense, hair in a messy ponytail and an easy swing to her steps. “Pre-opening snack?” she asks.

Jane presses a balled fist to her stomach. “Not right now.”

“Nervous?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll do great.”

(Maybe it’s easy for Emma to say, because Emma probably slept more than three hours last night, and Emma’s obviously eaten more than coffee and a digestive biscuit this morning because Emma’s hope of a normal life doesn’t hinge on the library opening smoothly.)

Jane runs her hands over a non-existent wrinkle in her sky blue cardigan and asks, “How do you know?”

“Because you’re tougher than you think.” Emma pauses, plucks a sandwich from the plate. “Plus, you’re the bookiest person I’ve ever met.” She smiles briefly, and then pops the sandwich into her mouth.

She’s not entirely sure what to make of being ‘the bookiest person’ Emma’s ever met, but the woman somehow manages to look encouraging as she chews a sandwich—so Jane decides to take it as a compliment.

“So,” Emma says, covering her mouth with her hand as she chews, “I started reading Les Miserables.”

“Oh.” Jane hopes she doesn’t sound too shocked. “What— what made you choose Les Mis?”

“For one, Mary Margaret has the soundtrack from the musical and she won’t stop playing it until someone else ‘shares her appreciation’.” Emma grimaces and peers over her shoulder—but Mary Margaret wields her tape far out of hearing range. “Plus, you were reading it a few weeks ago and I thought it might… open a good dialogue between us.”

Jane frowns. “Don’t we have a good dialogue now?”

“Yeah, we do. But a new good dialogue. Where we can talk about… other things.”

“Other things?”

Emma purses her lips. She shrugs, and waves her hand vaguely. “Book things.”

“Right. Okay.”

Emma looks over her shoulder again, as if scanning for eavesdroppers. She coughs into a fist and then plucks another sandwich from her plate.

Jane isn’t sure what type of ‘book things’ could possibly make Emma so jumpy—but before she has a chance to ask, David’s voice pounds through the heavy doors.

Emma frowns over Jane’s shoulder. “The heck is this?”

Jane spins around, peers out the window to see David blocking the way of a stocky man in a baseball cap. The doors muffle voices, but Jane can make out a handful of words as the two converse. Words like ‘wait’ and ‘no’ and ‘in line with everyone else’ from David. Words from the other man that die before they reach her, chopped up into meaningless syllables and an unsettlingly familiar cadence.

“Do you want me to get rid of him?” Emma asks. She already searches for the nearest place to set down her sandwiches.

“I think it’s alright,” Jane says. She cranes her neck for a better view. 

The man attempts to walk forward, but stops abruptly with David’s palm pressed against his chest. The man (the stocky, pushy man with the familiar voice) falls silent for a long moment. And then he says ‘father’ too loudly, in an accent she can’t ignore.

Jane closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the cool glass.

“My offer still stands,” Emma says, and her boots click forward a couple steps forward. Jane can hear the grit in her voice. “I left the cuffs in the squad car, but Mary Margaret brought at least three boxes of tape.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Jane says. She pushes away from the door and rubs her face, tenting her hands over her mouth and breathing deep. (A new start is a new start, but sometimes the past comes lumbering back again as soon as you unlock the doors.) 

“Alright…” Emma says slowly, eyeing the door like Moe might lay siege to it at any moment. “I’ll be at the computer if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“Hang in there, Jane. You’ve got this.”

Jane’s stomach attempts a triple backflip, but she manages a smile in Emma’s general direction. “Thanks.”

When Emma’s boots click away, when the computer chair rolls across the floor and the faux-leather groans under sudden weight, (when her courage sparks determination into a sputtering flame), Jane steps through the doors. 

David half-turns, hand still upraised at the level of Moe’s chest.

Moe stares at her, expression frozen between indignation and shame. His mouth works as if chewing an invisible block of toffee.

Blue eyes meet blue eyes and Jane sets her jaw.

“May I speak to you please?” she asks. She looks to David (for approval or permission, or maybe because it’s easier to look at David than at her father) and then holds the door open. “Inside?”

David lowers his arm and takes a step back. For all his earlier insistence, Moe stares at the open doors like they might lead him down Medusa’s lair. When he finally drags concrete-block feet and follows her into the lobby, she closes the door behind her with a satisfactory slam of metal. Around the room, everyone looks up from their work. The box of extra tape sits on the computer desk, uncomfortably close to Emma’s plate of sandwiches and easily within arm’s reach.

Jane leads Moe deeper into the library, away from grim faces and empty floor space. She ducks behind a shelf, and finally settles in American History. The books absorb sound. The shelves form walls of her very own fortress. She runs a hand down her hip and thigh, smoothing out a crease, mustering her courage beside volumes depicting world wars. (She appreciates the glares and the threats of tape, but this is her father and today she needs to speak to him alone.)

He speaks before she has a chance.

And he says, “I’m sorry.”

She stares. 

“I’m ashamed,” he says, gripping the hem of his untucked lavender polo shirt, “of what I’ve done to you. I’ve been a terrible father. I’ve been a coward.”

He looks different, out of place in purple and khaki, with a receding hairline and pair of dress shoes. He keeps his distance, but she can see the shame, sharp as a trowel, in his eyes.

He wrings his shirt between his hands.

“I never should have pressured you. I should have listened. You’re a smart woman and you can make your own choices and—and I never even realized how wrong I’ve been, until David showed up at my door saying you’d gone missing. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. I was so worried, Jane. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead, and I knew then that I’d do anything just to see you safe again.” He tilts his head to the floor, face creasing like a discarded ball of paper. “And I did that to you. No-one deserves that, but I’m your father and I nearly—” His voice breaks and he stares at the floor, heavy hands shaking, tangled in purple cotton.

Fluttering uncertainty (‘he-loves-me’ or ‘he-loves-me-not’) twists her stomach into magnificent brambles.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says.

His admissions pull petals from hope she’d long abandoned. Because he hasn’t been there. Not in the ways she needed. Not in understanding, quiet ways. Not in smiling, joking, coffee and bowling ways. Not in father ways.

But now—in the quiet of the library, she wears a sky blue cardigan, and a grey skirt, and the confidence of a woman who built a life from shards and ashes. She’s walked away once already. And if she needs to, she can do it again.

He fidgets. But in his new clothes and new determination, he makes an effort.

“You’re here now,” she says, after a deep breath. She smiles at him (and it feels like cracking teeth, but second chances don’t have to be easy). “That counts for something.”

He doesn’t move forward to take her hand, or call her Belle or hug her. He doesn’t demand or criticise or beg. He just thanks her. And he smiles back. (His eyes look sad.)

“I should let you go,” he says.

Jane nods. “I should get back.”

“I’m sure you must be busy.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry if I made a scene.”

“It’s alright.”

“Okay then.” He swallows hard and opens his fingers, prying his fists away from his shirt. He smoothes the fabric down over his stomach and clears his throat. “It was good to see you, Jane.”

He turns to leave.

She watches. And then follows after him.

She catches up before he passes the administration desk, and her fingers brush the back of his new shirt “Wait.”

He turns. So does every head in the lobby. The tape dispenser zips ominously from beside the cluster of her friends-slash-bodyguards clustered by the refreshment table.

Jane looks at the computer (all systems go, thanks to Emma’s tinkering) and to the double doors. She looks at the shelves of books. She looks at her father’s hopeful expression.

“Do you uh—”

“Do I?”

She bites her lip because it’s a habit she can’t quite break, and because she needs time to slip behind the desk and rummage around in the top drawer. Her fingers close around a flat piece of plastic, and she slides a library card onto the counter. “Do you want the first one?”

He leaves just as the library officially opens, with a new card in his pocket and a golf magazine under his arm, and a promise to return before the two-week due date.

(Second chances aren’t easy—but maybe they’re worth the risk.)

 

xxxx

 

At 8:05 PM, Jane turns off half the lights in the library. People trickle in from the furthest corners. Those with armfuls of books file into a (relatively) neat line in front of the circulation desk. Those without books simply file through the door.

At 8:20, just as the last family begins to check out their small mountain of library materials, Mister Gold joins the line. 

He strides out from the shelves and stands behind Mr. and Mrs. Talib with his eyes on the floor, as if Jane won’t notice a man hunched over a cane and buttoned to the neck in a three-piece suit despite the heat of the evening. Mrs. Talib glances warily over her shoulder, while her husband fills out information for the library cards, and each parent holds tight to one of their two young daughters. 

Jane watches him too, though not for the same reasons.

She manages to bundle the Talibs and their books off in record time (no small thanks to Rum’s silent presence behind them). When they leave, she spends moment updating their information on her computer. She stands to tidy her already immaculate desk (replacing one single pen in the pen holder, recycling one printed receipt). She wipes her palms on her skirt. And then she looks up.

He seems older than she remembers (but not as old as she’d once thought). Dark circles ring his eyes and grey streaks his temples and his forehead crinkles with worry (and she wants to smooth his worries away, to trace lips and fingertips across each crease). She smiles because she can’t help it.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says.

“I didn’t see you come in.”

“You were busy.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess I was.”

Shifting her gaze beyond Mister Gold, Jane surveys the lobby. Grit and scuff marks cover the once-clean floor tiles—tiny bits of leaves and grass lay near the door. The ‘Librarian’s Recommendation’ cart sits pushed to the far corner, piled high with empty wicker baskets that once held free bookmarks. The platters on the refreshment table hold only crumbs, the punch bowl is dry, and Mary Margaret’s tape job managed to hold most—if not all—the decorations and labels in place.

It has been a successful day.

“Congratulations,” he says, twisting to look over his shoulder. He grimaces at the gesture, but smiles when he turns back to face her. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“Thank you for coming,” she says. “I… didn’t think you would make it.”

“I said I would,” he says.

“I know you did. But I haven’t heard from you in nearly a month.” The air outside is warm, but the air conditioner circulates cold air and she rubs her arms. “That’s a long time, Rum.”

He stares down at the counter and says, “Jane…” (Her name sounds an apology all on its own).

She plucks her cardigan from the back of her office chair and wraps herself in the soft wool. Anger, fear, frustration, loneliness—and a hundred other vague and intangible emotions—swirl across her skin. (They chill her far more than conditioned air.) She wants to hug him and kiss him and take his hand and push him away all at once.

“I was worried,” she says.

“I know.”

“You could have picked up the phone.”

When he nods, his hair falls in front of his face, obscuring his expression. The downcast curve of his shoulders speaks despite his silence.

Her stomach trembles (and she feels relief—she’s relieved to see him after so long even if he looks old and pale and haggard around the eyes).

“I—I just don’t understand. I have no concept of what you’re going through. Why didn’t you tell me you lost your magic? I don’t know what I could have done to help, but I could have tried something.” Now that the questions have started, Jane can’t seem to stop them. “What are you afraid of? Are you afraid? Are you hurt? Are you angry? Are you angry with me?”

He doesn’t answer. He shifts his grip on his cane and doesn’t look at her.

It’s hard to talk with a counter between them. Before her mind has a chance to decide on a course of action, her feet carry her around the desk. She stands close to him. Her hand touches his bicep. 

“Rum… is everything okay? Are youokay?”

His hands twist around his cane. He turns towards her, managing to straighten without dislodging her hand from his arm. Brown eyes meet blue, and he chooses his words carefully. His thumb spins his blue stone ring around his finger. (Still, words are better than silence.) “I’ve been having some… difficulty adjusting. I’m afraid I haven’t handled it very well.”

Jane bites her lip and tries to read the meaning behind his words. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

“Some,” he says. His smile aches like a month long absence, and he reaches one hand up to brush a lock of hair out of her face. “But nothing that won’t sort itself out within a couple of months.”

She leans into his touch. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Thank you. But I don’t think so.”

“Just let me know.”

“Of course.”

She takes a step forward, and her fingers tighten on his bicep. “Rum?”

“Mm?”

“I think I’m going to hug you now.”

He spreads his arms, and she steps in close. She presses her face against his chest and grips the back of his suit jacket so tightly her knuckles hurt, the weight of his arms around her back and his fingers combing through her hair. Around her, the world condenses to wool beneath her fingers, a heartbeat against her cheek, and the smell of silver polish and cologne. Maybe he’s in pain (he tenses when she tightens her grip around his ribs). Maybe he smells like rubbing alcohol underneath his cologne because he has no magic, because it took a little of his life away (and now he feels like he’s less of a man than he used to be). And maybe it’s her fault.

But maybe it doesn’t matter—because her fault or not, he holds her until she decides to let him go.

When she pulls away, tears burn the back of her eyes. She clears her throat and scrubs at her eyes with the back of her hands, smiling up at him. “Sorry,” she says. “I just… I missed you. And it’s been a long day.”

(Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but she thinks he blinks too much when he smiles back.)

“I have something for you,” he says.

“You do?”

Rum reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out an oblong object nearly the length of his forearm, wrapped in several crisp handkerchiefs. He must have worn a jacket with the largest possible pockets to contain it—and she must have been very distracted not to notice. He holds it out to her.

Whatever it is, it weighs as much as a hefty hardcover book. It’s vaguely triangular, and something gold glints out from between the handkerchiefs.

When she pulls the cloth away, the name ‘Jane French’ stares back at her, engraved in gold plate against polished dark wood. (Her name.) Beneath ‘Jane French’ sits the title ‘Librarian’ in slightly smaller letters. (Her title.)

When she doesn’t answer, staring dry-mouthed and fighting tears, he reaches over and taps a long finger against the plaque.

“It’s for your desk,” he says.

“I figured,” she says with a laugh.

“I intended to bring it this morning, but the engraver was late.”

“Rum—it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

This time, his smile reaches his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

She turns away to set the plaque atop the circulation counter. It glints in the light from the overheads, warm against dark wood. It looks perfect. (It looks like it belongs.)

Jane pulls her cardigan around her (the wool is a poor substitute for body heat) and turns back to Rum. “Do you have time for tea? Would you like to come upstairs?”

“I don’t want to keep you.”

“It’s no trouble. I can bring it down if you’d prefer.”

“Not tonight, Jane. But thank you.”

“Alright.” She tries not to let disappointment bleed through her voice (but she’s never been able to hide her emotions—she’s not like Gold with secrets behind every smile).

Gold adjusts his grip on his cane and turns to leave. Jane follows him across the lobby and decides to leave cleaning for the morning—which typically begins around 4 AM, when the library doesn’t open on Sundays until 10, so she’ll have plenty of time.

Gold stops on the floor mat with his hand pressed against the front door. “What time does the library close tomorrow?”

“We close at five on Sundays,” Jane says, an automatic answer (without needing to glance at the hours posted on the window beside her).

“Would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Yes,” he says.

She grins. “I’d love to.”

“Granny’s at six?”

“Seven is better.”

“I’ll meet you there.” He pauses, and his hand on the door curls into a fist. “I will be there, Jane.”

“I trust you,” she says.

He smiles, and opens the door with a rush of warm air. “I know.”

xxxx

 

When she finally wanders into her apartment—at midnight after mopping the floor and reorganizing the shelves and flipping through an adaptation of Macbeth in graphic novel format—her cellphone blinks with new messages. She ignores them thoroughly until she’s showered and climbed into a pair of loose cotton pyjamas. She brews a pot of camomile tea, slides a Schuman cd into her stereo, and sinks down into her favourite armchair with a fuzzy plaid blanket. She sets her copy of Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying on the side table and puts her phone to her ear.

Four congratulatory messages. A message from Doctor Whale apologizing for missing the opening—a birth and a surgery, he explains, but he promises to make it by Monday at the latest. A message from Archie, just confirming their next appointment and wondering how she feels. A message from Emma, wondering which movie adaptation of Les Miserables Jane likes the best.

And a message from Gold, sent less than an hour ago.

“Jane,” he says. His voice sounds tinny on the phone, exhausted and hollow. “I want you to know—I don’t hate you. And I don’t blame you, for anything. I don’t think I could if I tried. I’m sorry I took so long to tell you.” He takes a breath. (She can’t seem to breathe.) “I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

She sips at her tea, and switches Faulkner for her battered Brontë.

Jane Eyre returns to Thornfield Hall just as Jane French’s eyes grow heavy, and dinner at seven o’clock feels like a million years away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi peeps! Sorry I'm a bit late with this. Long story short, I landed a freelance editing gig from a friend of the family, and ended up editing a 45,000 word book in one week. I was paid for it (yay! first paid edit!), but I also had two papers AND a hockey tournament in the last two weeks of February, on top of the book edit. Soooooo I did not have a lot of time. 
> 
> Consequently, I will also be late with the next couple of chapters. I have half of the next chapter written, but I also have a paper due on Monday AND a test to study for-- so I'll most likely post in two weeks from now. If I can get back on track, I'll try to get back into my weekly posting, but if school keeps bombarding me, I might have to update bi-weekly. Really sorry. There are only about four more chapters after this, and I have them all planned out, so it's just a matter of actually writing them. You've all been really patient and understanding, so I'm sorry I've been so sporadic with my schedule since the last hiatus! 
> 
> LIFE!
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for the kind reviews. I hope you enjoy the chap, enjoy the return of OUAT, and enjoy future chaps. Thank you so much. And an extra bit thankyou to Grace (firefreezing on tumblr) for being an awesome beta. :)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAD THANK YOU to the lovely TardisinWonderland for betaing when Grace fell prey to homework. Many thanks! Many thanks.

Some days, when the sun shines and children swarm the library—when Gold calls even if he can’t make lunch, and her father turns up with a bouquet of daisies for her desk— Jane conquers her fears. She laughs and smiles and sneaks behind complete strangers (with a hand on their shoulder) to shelve a book. She feels like a new woman and forgets there was ever an old.

And that troubles her.

Because before Jane, there was a _Belle_. (Her name still lingers, in the front cover of books and the depths of Rum’s most hidden expressions, and no-one deserves to be forgotten.)

Some days, even days filled with sunshine and flowers, Jane stares at her name plate and remembers loss. She takes her lunches outside. Instead of reading, she walks. She explores the town: the ocean, the side-streets, the playground, the hiking trails. She tries every item on Granny’s menu and even takes a trip on a fishing trawler (because if she lives a stolen life to the fullest, maybe she can earn the right to claim it as her own).

Jane French may have found happiness—but sometimes she wonders if she really deserves it.

xxxx

 

Jane stands in the dairy section of the local grocer’s, deciding between Brie and Camembert cheese, when her phone rings. Shifting the plastic grocery basket from one arm to the other, she manages to reach into her purse.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Emma.”

“Emma, hi. What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Sounds exciting.” Jane scrunches her phone between her ear and her shoulder, freeing up her hand. She picks up the wheel of Camembert and scans the nutritional ingredients on the back.

“So, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“I’m shopping right now, but we can meet up later if you want.”

“It’s okay. You can just talk me through it.”

“Sure.” The Camembert is on sale—so it’s cheaper than the Brie per gram—but Jane honestly doesn’t think she can eat enough to justify the purchase. She swaps the cheese for a quarter-wheel of Brie, tosses it into her basket, and moves away from the chill of the refrigerated dairy section. “I’m listening.”

“Alright.” Emma takes a deep breath, as if preparing to divulge a deep secret. “I’m trying to brainstorm gift ideas for Gold.”

Jane blinks. “Gift ideas?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Is it his birthday?” It could be. Jane doesn’t actually know when Rum’s birthday is. Or hers, for that matter. She hasn’t been able to find a birth certificate among Belle’s old things, and more important matters (such as kidnapping and libraries) keep cropping up.

“I don’t think so?” Apparently Emma doesn’t know when his birthday is either. “This is just—kind of a ‘thanks for teaching me’ kind of gift.”

“That’s very thoughtful. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the sentiment.”

“Yeah…” Emma sounds like she’d sooner believe in flying monkeys. “Anyway, I want it to be something he’ll use, at least. You know what he likes, right?”

“Um. Well.” Jane knows what he eats. What he wears. What type of cologne he prefers. She knows how he drinks his coffee, what laundry soap he uses and which radio stations he turns on in the car. She knows he rarely says exactly what he means, and rarely means exactly what he says.

(She knows he loves her.)

 “He’s more of the gift giver, usually.”

“Maybe you can help me narrow it down, then. Can I run a few suggestions by you?”

“Go ahead.” Jane turns down the ‘dry goods’ aisle and begins pulling items into her basket. Lentils, canned beans, a box of crackers.

“Alright. How about cufflinks?”

“Fairly sure he has a thousand.”

“Okay. A new cane?”                       

Jane shrugs, adding a can of condensed soup. “I’ve only ever seen him use the one.”

“Sunglasses?”

“Maybe. He can be pretty picky, though.”

Jane hates to contradict Emma on every suggestion—but Rum doesn’t need more ties. Or shoes. And he won’t eat chocolates. And he guaranteed will not use a waffle maker.

Emma sighs, the sound crackling through the phone speakers. “Okay. What about one of those touristy travel guide books? If you have one in the library, I can buy it off you. If not, maybe I can order one online and pick it up in the next town over.”

“That’s… oddly specific. I just don’t know what use he’d get out of it.”

“Isn’t he going to New York soon?”

Jane blinks. “Is he?”

“I’m pretty sure he said New York. Could have been Jersey I guess…” Emma pauses, in what might have been a shrug or an appearance of her scrunched-forehead-thinking-face. “Anyway, he’s going to find his son, or something.”

Jane drops a can of tuna onto the floor. It clatters and nearly rolls under the shelves. Jane shakes her head and kneels down to pick it up. “Did you say his son?”

“Yeah.”

“He… has a son?”

“I know. Super weird, right?”

Jane drops the can back in her basket, despite her shaking fingers. She stands, though she uses the shelves to brace herself.

“Emma?” Jane says.

“Yeah?”

“Can I—can I get back to you? About the book? I’ll check if we have anything in the library and then—I’ll call you later.”

“Oh yeah, sure. I’ll talk to you later.”

Jane barely manages a ‘bye’ before snapping the phone shut. She stares at it.

Somehow, she manages to make it home (with most of her grocery list remembered). She refrigerates the refrigerated items, freezes the frozen items, and leaves everything else sitting in paper bags on her kitchen counter.

She wanders downstairs and combs the tiny travel section of the library, pulling out one ‘Traveller’s Guide to New York City’ and one ‘Top 10 U.S. Cities’ coffee-table book.

(A son.)

She wraps a summer scarf around her shoulders, ignores her umbrella despite the threat of rain, and heads to the beach. She trudges across the sand barefoot until her legs ache. She lobs sea-shells into the surf. She signs her name ‘Jane French’ over and over into the sand with a long stick. She sits cross-legged and watches the waves scour the letters smooth.

(New York.)

When the clouds rumble and lightning flashes across the bay, she brushes herself off, pulls her phone from the pocket of her floral-print skirt, and invites Rum to dinner.

(Leaving?)

He says yes.

xxxx                  

 

Jane calls him an hour before dinner to tell him two things: the back door is open, and he should meet her in the children’s department. She tells him she’s reorganizing, and it’s not a lie—she subdivides the books by age group instead of just alphabetical order, and again between fiction and non-fiction. But it’s not quite the truth either.

She waits in the children’s department so she can surround herself with picture books and coloring pages and diminutive furniture scrawled with runaway crayon. Upstairs, she can’t seem to reconcile designer suits and Cadillacs with battered copies of _Clifford the Big Red Dog_. Down here, where children draw spaceships and dinosaurs on the same sheet of paper and genuinely believe in happy endings, anything can happen.

She also wants to try out the beanbag chair.

(It’s surprisingly comfortable.)

By the time Rum arrives, Jane lies nearly sideways on the blue squishy chair, knees hooked over the edge and head supported by a deliberately crafted hollow. She sets down the paperback _Stewart Little_ and attempts to right herself as his footsteps approach—but the beanbag proves as treacherous as it is comfortable, and she only manages to dig herself deeper into the cushioning before he rounds the corner.

His grey suit trousers step into her line of sight, and his cane plants itself in front of his shoes.

“Hey,” she says, wiggling a little to reach the floor with her feet.

When she twists her neck around to glimpse his face, he fights a smile.

“Having problems?” he asks.

“No. You?”

He purses his lips, as if considering it. He shakes his head once.

“Do you want help?”

She narrows her eyes and brushes a few strands of hair from her face. “I’ll let you know.”

After a quick glance, Rum steps closer and pulls a tiny plastic chair out from the equally tiny wooden table. With a grimace, he lowers himself down into it.

(The idea of Rum raising a child seems marginally more plausible.)

Very thankful that she decided to wear jeans instead of a skirt, she plants one hand on the floor and wiggles herself into an upright position.

“You hungry?” she asks.

In all the months she’s known him, Jane has never once heard the man admit hunger. She typically receives an ‘I could eat’, or ‘Are you?’ or a small smile and some deflection to another topic. So he surprises her when he smiles and says, “Yes, actually.”

“Alright,” Jane says. “Okay. How does pizza sound?”

“It sounds just fine.”

She snatches _Stewart Little_ from the floor and stands, moving to the ‘chapter books’ shelf to slide it back in place.

“I thought we could make it together. I can’t remember what you liked on yours.”

He mumbles something noncommittal she can’t quite make out.  

“I found a recipe for New York style crust. I’ve heard it’s the best kind—”

“I know Emma told you.”

She turns away from the shelf, hands falling to her sides. “What?”

“About New York.”

“How?”

“You’re… not particularly subtle,” Rum says, not unkindly.

“What— do you mean?”

He glances pointedly around the children’s section, then down at the two ‘New York’ travel books she (accidentally) left piled beside her beanbag chair, then back to her.

(He doesn’t look like a man flaunting a victory. He looks like a man confessing a crime, all shadowed eyes and quiet resignation.)

He says, “New York style Pizza.”

She clenches her fists against her legs and wishes she _had_ worn a skirt, because conversation is always easier with fabric to strangle. “Right.”

“I plan on leaving in three weeks,” he says.

It takes an effort to keep her eyes from the floor. She bites her lip and looks up into his face. “I—um—when were you planning on telling me?”

“I hadn’t decided.” His fingers shift on his cane.

“ _Were_ you going to tell me?”

He hesitates a moment, and then says, “Probably—yes.”

“‘Probably’.”

It’s not a word she wants to hear.

He opens his mouth, but she craves apologies even less than ‘probably’, and so she crosses her arms and cuts him off. “And it’s true you’re looking for your son?”

“Yes.”

“I take it you don’t see him often.”

“We had a disagreement… a long time ago. I’m going to make amends, if I can.”

She hates to ask (to bring up two ghosts in one breath), but curiosity rummages in the back of her mind, searching for answers only Rum can provide.

“Did—did Belle ever meet him?”

His lips curl into a tiny smile, as if he can ward off heartache by sheer force of will.  ( _No_.)

“I’d like to go with you,” she says. (A muscle twitches in his cheek.) “But I know this is something you have to do on your own.”

He looks at the floor, defeated, like her words open gashes in his back.

She steps closer, and slips into the tiny orange chair across from him. She unfolds her arms and places her hands on his knee. 

“Maybe I can meet him some day?”

He looks up. She sees her reflection smiling in his eyes.  

“I’d like that.”

“Tell me about him?”

Rum’s mouth twitches into a smile.

His name is Baelfire, and he sounds like a kind, sensitive, brave little boy. 

(He takes after his father.)

 


	31. Chapter 31

Jane is nearly finished drying her breakfast dishes when the phone rings. After wiping wet hands on a damp towel, she plucks her phone off the counter.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Emma.”

“Hi Emma. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I just thought you might want to go volunteer at the hospital with Mary Margaret today.”

Jane wipes her still-damp hands on her pyjama pants, and frowns at her dishes in the sink. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Because you’re a good person?”

“Right.” She drags out the word. “Well, I can’t. Somebody has to run the library.”

“I’ll come by for a few hours, and Mary Margaret can pick you up on her way.”

“Don’t you already have a job?”

“David can cover.”

Jane taps a fingernail against the countertop. “Is Gold going to be there?”

“Maybe.”

Jane sighs. She rubs her free (and slightly clammy) hand across her forehead, shutting her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

Emma’s voice goes flat as a new-paved road. “Doing what?”

“Spying.”

“I haven’t been—”

“Emma, I wasn’t born yesterday.” In fact, she’s been cognisant of her own existence for nearly six months now. “Every time I talk to you, you casually drop some secret about Rum. ‘Oh, by the way, he has no magic.’ ‘Oh, by the way, he has a son.’ ‘Oh, he’s going to New York’.”

Emma pauses. Jane can hear the sound of shifting feet over the phone. “I’m not spying. Not exactly.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Emma takes a deep breath and says, “A while back, I owed Gold a favour. He recently collected, and I think he overcharged. I’m trying to balance the books a little.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not allowed to tell you anyway.”

“What?”

“Just trust me, Jane,” Emma says. “Go to the hospital today. After—if you still have questions—you know where to find me.” And then she hangs up.

 

xxxx

 

Jane spends most of the morning arranging flowers and shaking hands, smiling and storytelling, tagging along with Mary Margaret and trying not to get in the way. She wears her brightest sweater and her biggest smile, and musters extra encouragement for the woman with appendicitis who recovers in the familiar room 223.

She says hello to every nurse. (She’s doing well, they say. She looks so comfortable. They love what she’s done with the library.)

She reads a book to a little boy with a broken ankle (and he shares his bag of gummy worms with her, because grownups always read _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ better after eating gummy worms).

She eats a salad at the cafeteria and drinks substandard coffee from the machine. (The coffee is strong and the food is average, but she feels like a visitor instead of a prisoner and it feels like triumph.)

After lunch, when Mary-Margaret wanders off into the TV room for her weekly game of bingo with her regulars, Jane glides through the hospital like the Ghost of Memories-Past. She bounces from wing to wing, nurses station to office, hunting down Doctor Whale. (Doctor Whale and Rum, who lurks at the back of her mind like the threat of rain on a pleasant afternoon, the constant threat of tragedy she half-expects around every corner.)  She nearly gives up before she catches sight of a white lab coat and familiar gelled blonde hair outside the hospital pharmacy.

“Viktor,” she calls, and waves.

He must not have seen her approaching, because he jumps like his name is a gunshot and she is the bullet hurtling towards him. He carries a clear bottle filled with pink pills in one fist, and he passes it behind his back at the sight of her. It reappears, obstructed from view, on his other side. “Sorry,” she says as she moves closer, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not your fault,” he says, and grimaces. “Three cranky patients, a nurse on a rampage, and I’ve only had time for two cups of coffee.”

“That’s rough.”

He covers his face with his hand and peers between his fingers at her. His eyes look particularly bloodshot. “You have no idea.”

Having lived in the hospital for nearly one third of her remembered life, Jane has _some_ idea of Whale’s dependence on coffee. (But his other hand still hides the bottle of pills, and he looks over her shoulders down the hall, and he works a bit too diligently on flashing a devil-may-care smile every time she glances up at him.) 

“So,” he says, combing his fingers through his hair before dropping his hand back to his side, “what brings you back to the old neighbourhood? You’re not here about my overdue books, are you?”

“Actually, your books aren’t due until Saturday. Emma’s minding the library, I’m helping Mary Margaret, and—”Jane trails off, and studies his face. “And I’m completely interrupting something, aren’t I?”

“No.” He shifts his hand on the container of pills, and they rattle against the plastic.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

 “Well, sort of,” he amends. “I do have a patient.” (And by his tone, one of the cranky ones.)

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. A few minutes more won’t kill him.”  His smile slips. His eyes dart away from hers.

Sudden suspicion twists itself into an iron knot. She may not have magic, but she is a librarian and Whale is a book with large-print pages.

“Not anyone I know, I hope,” she says. “Nothing too serious.”

“Sorry Jane, you know I can’t say anything. Divulging information would be a huge breach of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to pry.”  But that’s not quite the truth. She meant to pry because she wants to know everything, because she’s tired of secrets and hidden half-truths. Emma’s been right so far, without fail, and Rum in Whale’s office would explain why he’s been walking so slowly lately, so heavy on his cane (and why he smiles at her like he’s saying goodbye).

Viktor shoves both his hands, and the bottle of pills, into his pockets. His shoulders hunch and he glares down at the tiled floor.  “Sorry to cut this short, but I should really get going.”

She steps to the side.

“Thanks.”

“Tell Mister Gold I say hi.”

“Sure. I wi—” Whale takes two whole steps before he falters, nearly tripping. When he stops, he turns slowly to stare at her with a hunted expression.

(Shame, heavy and suffocating as a wool blanket, settles across her shoulders.)

She bites her lip.  “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” he says. He doesn’t need to say for what. Jane has lost too many things already, not to recognize sympathy when she sees it.

The pill bottle, with the name “Gold, Rumplestiltskin” printed on the label, sticks half out of his pocket.

 

xxxx

 

Uncertainty feels like digesting stones. Like cold skin and trembling fingers, like gnawing her lip, like moving too slow in a double-time world.  It feels like everything and nothing, chaos out of the corner of her eye. She wants to hide under her covers, with a book and a cup of tea, until reality stops somersaulting and promises to behave itself.

Instead, she fakes it.

She crawls into the armchair in front of the television and opens her book to use as a shield. She forges smiles out of worry and endures two bingo games. She nods at Mary Margaret’s questions and says she’s “fine, just tired”, and tries not to search the parking lot for a black Cadillac when they pull away from the hospital. And by the time Mary Margaret drops her off in front of the library, Jane’s smiles have worn out. Panic drives up and down her spine like an out of control car.

She pushes through the library doors, into the lobby. A few people wander amidst the shelves, lost in the hush only a library can achieve, but the front desk is mercifully clear. Emma sits behind it with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a thick dog-eared paperback copy of _Les Miserables_ in the other.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” Jane asks, trying to keep her voice low. Her knuckles ache from gripping the overlong sleeves of her sweater.

Emma tapes a slow sip of coffee, and then lowers her book face-down on the desk in front of her.

“Is something wrong with Gold?”

Emma blinks. She says “Yeah—,” and then slumps back into her chair like the panic-car drove over her spine too. She sighs and rubs her hand across her face.  “Now that you mention it, yeah.”

She looks… relieved.

Something hot bubbles up in Jane’s stomach. Her cheeks burn despite icy, trembling fingers. Tears spring to her eyes, turning Emma into an expressionist painting of yellow hair and a blue tank top.

“What’s wrong with him? Is it serious? Will he be okay? Is it cancer?”

The blur-Emma looks down at her hands and doesn’t answer.

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?” Still no answer, and the heat rises up from Jane’s stomach into her throat. She frowns at Emma. A teenage girl browsing the graphic novel selection turns to stare. Jane wipes her tears with her sleeve and tries to lower her voice. “Why wouldn’t _you_ tell me?”

Emma purses her lips. “So—you know that part in _Les Mis_? Near the end?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just hear me out.”

“Emma, why on earth—”

“Trust me on this.”

“How can I? When you’ve been hiding this from me, for who knows how long—”

“Will you just listen?” This time, more people than the graphic novel kid turn to stare. Emma takes a deep breath and holds up her hands. “Look, I promise all your questions will get answered. Just… let me do my bit, okay? I’ve read through practically this whole stupid book to help you out here.”

Emma isn’t making any sense. Nothing makes sense, actually. The world—books and meals and insomnia and a thousand details she’s learned how to handle—tips sideways. Her hands tremble and her veins thicken with dread like cold porridge, and so she nods. “Okay. Fine.”

Emma nods back, and drains her coffee before exchanging her empty mug for her paperback. She plops it in front of Jane, and places her hand on it like she’s swearing on a Bible.

“So, you know near the end of _Les Mis_ , how Jean Valjean runs off to go die in some hole? And he makes Marius promise not to tell Cosette because he’s a huge jerk and thinks Cosette will be better off without him? Well,” Emma takes a breath, “at first I thought Marius should have just broken his promise and told her. But then again, promises are important. So what’s a guy to do?”

“Uhh—”

“Don’t answer, this is rhetorical.” Emma leans back into her chair, letting her hands slide off her book. She crosses her arms. “Anyway, I think Marius would be way better off if he found a way to keep his promise, _and_ tell Cosette at the same time. You follow?”

Jane blinks. This oddly specific literary example isn’t helping to calm her fears.

“It’s okay, it has no connection to real life anyway.” Emma leans forward again, and fiddles with her coffee cup. She can’t seem to sit still. “Anyway, I know Valjean _said_ to leave him alone—but I’ll bet he’d much rather have Cosette there with him, even if it’s only for a few months.” Emma stares at her, expectantly, and then continues. “And it just sucks, because now Marius has to live with all the guilt—knowing if he was just a tiny bit faster or smarter, he could find a loophole, and then Valjean wouldn’t off and die before Cosette figures out what’s going on.”

Without thinking, Jane says, “Cosette does get to say goodbye. Marius tells her, in the end.”

“Oh. I haven’t gotten that far yet.” Emma frowns at the book. “Spoilers.”

Jane rests her hand on the book momentarily, and then looks at Emma. Relief has turned into urgency in the other woman’s face, and Jane can see the strain under her eyes, the dark circles and the uneasiness.

 “I should go.”  Jane looks in the direction of the windows, open to the Storybrooke main street and the pawnshop on the corner. 

Emma picks her book up, and starts leafing through the pages.

“Yeah, you really should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Miranda (aka madmadmadamem on tumblr) for emergency betaing this chap yet again! And thanks everyone for sticking with the story so long. We're coming up to the end now! There's one more chapter after this, plus an epilogue, and I hope you all enjoy them both. Thanks for reading!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go! This is the last full-length chap. It's been a wild ride, and hope you enjoy every minute of it. Epilogue coming very soon!

Jane likes to think of herself as a sensible woman. But sensible people don’t nearly run headlong into traffic just to cross the street. And sensible people don’t sprint in breakneck high-heels when it takes less than two minutes to walk to their destination. And sensible people certainly don’t barge into Mister Gold’s pawn shop when the sign clearly reads ‘closed’.

But even sensible people stop being sensible when their heart sinks to their stomach and their emotions ball up somewhere in their throat—and so Jane twists the doorknob and enters the shop, announced only by her heels on the dark wooden floor and the too-cheery clink of a (Belle).

The front of the shop looks normal, if dim. The overhead lights are off.  Late afternoon sun pours through the windows, casting long shadows in the yellowed light. Objects hang about the room like the contents of someone’s crazy attic, cherished memories on display, dusted and polished and never allowed to rest. She picks her way through the cupboards and glass cases, and pushes through the curtained doorframe into the back of the shop.

Rum sits at the table in the centre of the room, his back to the door, surrounded by sprawling chaos. A cardboard boxes lie beside the wall, overflowing with bits and bobs—a plastic hair comb mixed in with golden candelabras, tossed together with a crystal ball and a microscope.

 “You’re late,” he says without turning around, and his voice seems to lash out at her. For the first time in a long while, she can see why people fear him.

She steps further into the room, swinging around to the side of the table. He sits in front of a massive ledger, pen in hand, cataloguing a number of items strewn beside him on the table. He picks up stone mortar and pestle, scribbles something in the book, and then exchanges them for what looks like a battered belt buckle.

“I didn’t realize you were expecting me.”

He sets down the belt buckle and the pen, with over-exaggerated care, and then turns. He wears his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and his jacket and tie hang neatly over the chair beside him. He tries shifting his position to block her view of the bottle of pills sitting beside his ledger.  Jane pretends not to notice. She keeps her eyes locked on his.

“I thought you were Emma,” he says.

 “Is it true?” she asks. She licks her lips and scrunches her skirt in her hands. “Are you dying?”

When he doesn’t answer, she steps forward.

“I need the truth, Rum, please. And I need to hear it from you.”

Something shifts in his expression, and she catches sight of a man she’s only seen in glimpses—a hard, cruel man who hides his pain behind a mask of mocking smiles. His mouth tightens, and his eyes narrow. “We all die eventually,” he says with a dismissive flick of his hand.

“Rum, please.”

She thinks he might walk out on her. His back stiffens and his hands press against the table until his knuckles turn white. But when he drags his gaze away from glaring a hole in the wall, and stares into her eyes instead, his voice softens. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he offers a hand in supplication. “We all die. Even me.”

She flinches. His words cut as effortlessly as chef’s steel. “How long?”

“Two months would be a generous estimate.”

“How?”

He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I was stabbed with the dagger I gave to Cora.”

“How? Why?” She drifts down a river, and the water’s cold as ice, and she can’t make sense of much except that maybe she’s shivering.  “Can’t Emma heal you?”

“She’s the only reason I’m still breathing.”

A thousand questions swirl around her, but she can’t feel her fingers anymore and trying to grasp them is like bobbing for apples while navigating rapids. She would cry, only crying feels like defeat, and she can’t lose him when she’s already lost everything else, and—

Her fingers close around the biggest question, the most important one. (Bobbing for the apple with razorblades buried just beneath the skin.)

“Is it my fault?”

“No.” Rum moves like time hasn’t stopped, like the cold hasn’t lanced into his bones and iced over his muscles. He snatches his cane from the back of his chair and stands, stepping towards her. “No, no, Jane. No. Of course not. Why would you say that?”

Something dark glistens wetly over his ribs, a dark stain across his left side. She wants to kiss him, and she wants to hit him, because he lied and he hid things from her and he’s dying and _why didn’t he tell her_ —but instead, she steps forward and into his embrace. She presses her face against his chest, and his arms wrap tentatively around her back. He strokes her hair with a shaking hand.

“It’s nobody’s fault, Jane. This is why I didn’t—I didn’t want you to think—”

She’s not sure how much he can hear with her face half-smothered in his shirt, but she can’t her words any more than she can stop tears from dampening his lovely violet dress shirt.

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have needed to give Cora that knife."

“She’s been searching for it for years.”

“You could have kept it hidden.”

“There was always a risk she would find it.”

“She wouldn’t have stabbed you.”

His hand slows against her hair. Very quietly, he says, “Cora didn’t stab me.”

She looks up, frowning, and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “What do you mean?”

Rum licks his lips and says, “Hook did. I asked him to.”

Jane pulls away, stepping back so quickly she stumbles into clutter. A serving tray clatters as it skids across the floor. “I don’t understand—you went to him? Why would you do that? What—”

Rum holds up a hand, trying to soothe her while still leaning heavily on his cane. “Please, let me make some tea. I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

A part of Jane wants to run. She wants to run until she falls, and then lie on the ground until her problems disappear. But he promised answers and tea—and she needs one as much as the other—and so she nods and lets him lead her to the wooden table in the middle of the room. He moves his jacket and tie onto the table in a pile, and she takes the seat beside his.

Surprisingly (or maybe not), he has a kettle and portable burner buried in one of the piles of clutter.  A moment later, he hands her a steaming mug. No milk or sugar, but bitter tea feels more appropriate anyways, and she hardly notices the taste.

He explains everything in a quiet monotone, eyes on his folded hands.  And when he does meet her gaze, he looks surprised to find her still sitting beside him.

 

They all came from a place called the Enchanted Forest. (He was a spinner.) The knife holds the key to his powers. (The only thing that can kill him.)  Cora wants to control him. (The control will pass to Hook when Rum dies.)

 He dropped his son down a magical portal, and he has regretted it every day of his life.

Hook will be the new Dark One, locked in a Dark One proof prison. Cora will have no power as long as she stays outside the line—and Rum’s been teaching Emma magic in case Cora does come back. He’s also teaching her to make memory potions for the town line, so Emma and a crew can go out searching if they need to. He’s leaving Jane the shop, and a box of magical objects that will make her the safest woman in the town.

He made sure she will be safe. Everything he’s done will make sure.

She slides her hand across the table, and grips his fingers so hard she half expects to hear them crack. Her tea sits, pushed away and forgotten, beside his bottle of pink pills.

“I should have everything in order by next week,” he says.

“And then that’s it? I’ll never see you again?”

Rum says nothing. He just holds her hand.

“What am I supposed to do?”

He stares down at their entwined fingers. “Whatever you want,” he says. His thumb brushes against hers. “See the world. Run the library. Fall in love.”

He may look at their hands, but she looks at his face. At his sharp, straight nose. The dark shadows around his eyes and the lines around his tight lips, like he’s trying to tie his mouth shut to keep from screaming. His throat exposed by a single open button, his hair brushing the shoulders of his shirt. The world reflected in miniature, mirrored in sad brown eyes.

“I am in love.”

He doesn’t respond, though he forces a small smile. He nods. He’s trying to look encouraging.

She smiles up at him, leaning closer to catch his attention. She bumps her shoulder into his, very gently. “With you, Rum.”

He blinks twice. (He looks genuinely surprised, and it breaks her heart.) “What?”

“I want to go with you,” she says. She places her free hand on top of his. She doesn’t want to ever let him go. “Please. I won’t get in the way. I’ll help you find your son.”

 “Jane—”

“I want to stay with you forever. As long as I can, at least, I don’t care. Take me with you and I’ll prove it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me what I can and cannot think, Rum.” But she knows what it means to feel unlovable (to hear ‘I love you’ and expect a joke), and so she lifts a hand up and places it gently on the side of his face. “I love you.”

She stands. She pulls her other hand away from his, and cups his face with both hands, and looks down at him. Her heart pounds and her fingers tremble against his cheek. She loves a broken man who smells of straw and fancy cologne. She loves him because they’re both a little broken, and they’re both a little sad (and he never gave up on her, even when she thought he was a monster.)

He leans into her touch as if he’s never felt it before, as if trying to memorize her very fingerprints through his skin.

Slowly, she leans in and kisses him. Slowly, because she’s been waiting so long. Slowly, because this might be her last chance, and she wants to savour every moment. His stubble prickles her palms, but his lips move against hers as softly as a dream.

She’s loved him for so long. Falling for him a little at a time, like walking down the stairs. A key to the library. A gold plaque. Hamburger dates. (Ogres and deals and _forevers_ and bloodied aprons.) A shattered cup, a rose, magic hands on gold straw, soft enough to weave necklaces but strong enough to catch her when she falls (off a ladder, such a long way down and right into his arms.)

She slides her hand up, into his hair, looping her other arm around the back of his neck. His hands slide around her waist, pulling her closer.

He could have run away, but he stayed (for her).

He could have held her close, but he opened the doors and let her free, even when he knew she might never come back.

He could have blamed her for everything (but he never will).

She’s loved Rumplestiltskin for a long long time.

She breaks the kiss and tries to pulls away, but his arms around her waist hold her tight.

“Jane, please, kiss me again.”

She’s not Jane (or maybe she is, she doesn’t know). She’s lived two lives and one of them started with a bullet through the shoulder, and the other started in a castle—but she _will_ kiss him again. And so she does. It doesn’t last long, because he sits unmoving, lips still and hands clenching handfuls of her sweater. 

“Rumple, what is it?”

His eyes snap open. His lips part, and his brow furrows. He stares at her.

“You’re back,” he says.

“Yes,” she breathes. She stares right back at him. (She’s back, but she’s always been here, and she hasn’t seen him in months even though she’s spent the last several hours in his shop.)

“You’re Belle.”

She nods, and she’s crying, and she smoothes his hair across his temple. The name sounds right (more than jingle bells and cow bells and the resounding music of church bells from a great cathedral). From his lips it sounds almost like a prayer.

“And you’re dying,” she says.

He slides his hands from around her back until they rest on her hips. Gently, he pushes her away. She steps back, and he stands. He puts his hands on her shoulders. “The dagger kills the Dark One.”

She frowns up at him, wrestling down a flicker of hope. “But you are the Dark One.”

He shakes his head slowly, tears dancing in his eyes.  His lips curve into a smile. “If you’re back—”

“—that means it’s True Love,” she says, and laughs. She can’t help herself. She laughs and throws her arms around his neck, pushing herself up to her tip-toes to press her lips to his, again and again. (He doesn’t seem to mind.)

“Is it working?” she asks, slightly out of breath. Kissing his mouth, his cheek, the edge of his jaw.

“Oh yes.” He pulls away, tugging up the side of his shirt. He turns to face a full-length mirror and studies his side in the reflection. His undershirt is stained red, and a dark spot still soaks his violet dress shirt, but he grunts with satisfaction at what he sees.

The wound looks horrible to Belle—red and inflamed— but Rumple smiles and that’s enough assurance for her. She beams up at him.

A sudden clatter from the doorway, and Belle whirls around to look.

Emma stands just inside the room, grimacing and trying to backtrack through the pile of junk she’s toppled around her ankles. “Oh gosh, I—” She blows out a long breath, trying to look away. “I should have knocked, sorry, I—”

Rumple slowly lowers his shirt and glares at Emma. Belle bites back a smile, teeth digging into her lower lip.

“I didn’t realize you were still in here. I locked up the library. Left the key in the potted plant out front, like you said.” Emma carries her copy of _Les Miserables_ in one hand and awkwardly smacks it against her thigh. It makes a dull ‘thud’ against her jeans. She turns to Gold. “So… not bleeding to death? Nope? Alright then.” She turns to leave, picking her way out of the room. “I’ll come by tomorrow then. Yup. Okay. Bye.”

They watch Emma go, and Belle slides her hand into Rumple’s. It’s a bit sticky with blood, but she laces her fingers between his nonetheless. (If she could scrub up aprons drenched in his captives’ blood and still love the man, she can put up with sticky hands).

“Don’t be too upset with her, Rumple,” she says, giving his fingers a squeeze. “She didn’t break her promise.” Not technically, anyway. 

Rumple doesn’t answer, still glaring at the spot where Emma stood.

Belle shifts a little closer. “You know, you could almost say you owe her one.”

He finally turns, staring down at her with an utterly blank expression.

She shrugs, and smiles. “I said _almost_.”

 

xxxx

 

They go for dinner.

They walk beside the ocean under moonbeams and street lamps. She carries her shoes, and he complains about getting sand in his socks.

They sit on the bench where he first walked Jane home—only this time he’s beside her instead just a voice on the phone, and she lays her head against his chest, and she can hear him breathing. He wraps her up in his jacket, because she forgot to bring one. They watch the tide go out.

“You know,” she says, when the horizon turns grey instead of black, “you could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you’d just explained your trouble in the first place.”  She looks up at him, attempting to memorize his profile against the early morning sky. “I would have done kissed you in a heartbeat. You only had to ask.”

“I couldn’t bear to hope,” he says.

But when he leans in, and asks (very politely) for a kiss, he promises never to make that mistake again.

 


	33. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The 'Welcome to Storybrooke' sign looms ever closer as the Cadillac speeds down the asphalt, benign and blue among the trees, and she nearly forgets to breathe.

Rumple stares straight ahead, lips thin and hands on the wheel. Focused. Determined. He wears his collar open and his sleeves rolled up, and Bae's shawl draped over his shoulders despite the heat of the summer morning. The windows are open and the rushing air smells of forest.

Belle adjusts her purse on her lap and grips her necklace tightly.

Nothing bad is going to happen. Not this time. Rum is here (and Hook is not), and Emma's armed some dwarves with memory potion and revolvers, forcing Cora back into hiding. She's in a car with Rumple. She's wearing a talisman around her neck.

But Belle still has nightmares, even if they don't keep her up half the night anymore.

And Belle still flinches at car doors and thunder, because they remind her of gunshots and flooding asylum cells.

Belle still carries her battered copy of Jane Eyre in her purse, just in case.

She may smile more than Jane—but she remembers fear just as intimately.

The car begins to slow. Rumple pulls off to the side of the road, and parks. When he twists the key and the engine shuts off, the world condenses to her own slow breathing and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves.

He twists in his seat to face her. "Are you alright?"

"Was it that obvious?"

He quirks a smile. "Of course not," he says. "I'm merely observant."

She laughs and eases her hand away her necklace. The familiar golden braid now loops through a hole in a polished shard of white and blue teacup. Her white knuckled grip on the porcelain leaves a small indent in her palm. (Her most treasured object, to preserve her most treasured memories).

"If you've changed your mind, I understand. I'll be back in a few weeks."

"Don't think you're getting rid of me that easily," she says.

He chuckles. They sit a moment in the calm of the morning, in the hot sun and warm breeze. In the dancing leaf shadows and birdsong.

She reaches over to the steering wheel, and covers his hand with hers. "What about you? Are you alright?"

"Fine," he says, though his eyes narrow (as if at an enemy) when he turns his gaze back to the road.

"Really fine? Or just sort of fine?"

A long pause.

She gives his hand a squeeze. "It'll be alright."

"How do you know?"

"Because if Bae sees what I see, he'll have to love you."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I'll just have to love you for the both of us."

Belle leans forward, only slightly hindered by her seatbelt, and presses her lips to Rumple's cheek. He smiles and kisses her hand. She laughs and pulls away, and fishes his sunglasses from the glove box when he turns on the engine.

The Cadillac crosses the town line at 8:15 AM, ringing with whirling-dervish hope, and her name on his lips like the sound of a

(Belle.)


End file.
